A friend of mine recently came across a competition in one of her many daily forwards and asked me to write an entry for her... The question being, "do you love shoes as much as we do?". So I did and a little while later they called her and invited her and a date, the date being me of course, to a shoe party as one of their finalists!
Here's what I wrote:
W.W.K.D, like those “What would Jesus do” material bracelets, I ask myself: what would Kate do? I ask this vital question to determine which pair of shoes will team best with my LBD (little black dress).
I don’t have much time, the shop assistant will only be busy at the cash register for a moment, her pesky peepers will soon be on me again.
I need a colour that is neutral, something which doesn’t imprison the ankle, I hate that. I stare out at the vast array of wonders before me, all polished and preened and ready to grace my unworthy yet desperate feet. A pair of Salvatore Ferragamo knee highs here, a pair of Christian Louboutin wedges there. Jewelled Miu Miu’s, magenta Yves Saint Laurent’s, shoes of every variety; metallic, satin, Swarovski Crystal, suede, studded, multi bow, my mind reels, my heart races.
I spot the perfect ankle boots as I risk a quick glance at the shop assistant, I have a few seconds at best. In what I hope is a casual manner, I glide toward the stacks of boxes beneath the shoe on show, size 5, size 7... No size 6! Damn.
I can feel the sweat beads forming on my hairline, I can hear the assistant and the customer exchanging farewell pleasantries, it’s now or never.
My weakness for pretending to fit into a 5 when in actuality I am a 6 takes over. In record time, I lift the lid off the box, stuff the pair in my oversized but oh-so fashionable bag and neatly, albeit hastily, arrange everything as was, not leaving a box out of place.
My heart pounding at an accelerated pace, I exit the door, and run.
I check the time as I run then round a corner to catch my breath. I have no more than 10 minutes to make it to the premiere. Checking to see if anyone noticed, staying absolutely still to hear for police sirens, I pull out the R989 pair of beauties and slip them on, well, it was more of a struggle than a slip, giving the old saying “desperate times call for desperate measures” an entirely new meaning.
Thanks to my Achilles Heel, grave desperation and, of course, my infinite love for all creatures that go on my feet, I’m on time and fashionably flushed, looking better than Kate ever could.
February 26, 2009
February 13, 2009
Meat
A man who holds the highest degree of worth, a miscreant and one who boasts of his prowess, these men are amongst many whom I notice at the party. I proceed aimlessly through the throngs of faces, some faces not all together unpleasing, and notice with innocent delight that I am one of few woman at this gathering; therefore I hold a certain mesmerism; a curiosity.
With insistent rapidity I begin chatting with these men, batting my lashes at them; sounding false, seeming sincere and interested.
Stiff conversations here, a roar of laugher there and me; rooted to the spot where I stand, surrounded by the more negligible sex, sporadic glances from mine.
I look around and search facial expressions, and eyes, collecting thoughts; tallying up.
I see raised eyebrows, arrogant smirks – the worst kind.
I watch body movements, the unspoken language, and the obviousness of it; if it weren’t so vile it might be almost pure.
My delight disappears instantaneously and instead of feeling like the prize, I feel like a whore.
I’m on display, on show; on sale to the highest bidder, and the madam of the house is me; the boss and the goods.
The air around me begins to smell; it begins to reek of something meaty, something unclean and unromantic.
It stifles me and I push past the large bodies, stepping on a few toes along the way, and I bump straight into a man so spectacular looking, yet I see a look behind the magnificent colour of his eyes and suddenly he is repulsive. I push him out of the way, in desperate need to escape this cliché.
I can feel the disgusted expression on my face taking form, holding firmly in place as I pass man after man after woman after man. I can tell freedom is just up ahead as I feel less of the heat created by the bodies and the breath and more of the cool night air streaming in from the entrance way.
The pungent smell of desperation leaves my nose as the night takes its place. I am alone on the street amass with revellers and out here it doesn’t seem so bad.
A shiver makes its way down my spine as I blow into my hands in an attempt to warm them. The night is over for me; a few things are over for me in this moment.
With insistent rapidity I begin chatting with these men, batting my lashes at them; sounding false, seeming sincere and interested.
Stiff conversations here, a roar of laugher there and me; rooted to the spot where I stand, surrounded by the more negligible sex, sporadic glances from mine.
I look around and search facial expressions, and eyes, collecting thoughts; tallying up.
I see raised eyebrows, arrogant smirks – the worst kind.
I watch body movements, the unspoken language, and the obviousness of it; if it weren’t so vile it might be almost pure.
My delight disappears instantaneously and instead of feeling like the prize, I feel like a whore.
I’m on display, on show; on sale to the highest bidder, and the madam of the house is me; the boss and the goods.
The air around me begins to smell; it begins to reek of something meaty, something unclean and unromantic.
It stifles me and I push past the large bodies, stepping on a few toes along the way, and I bump straight into a man so spectacular looking, yet I see a look behind the magnificent colour of his eyes and suddenly he is repulsive. I push him out of the way, in desperate need to escape this cliché.
I can feel the disgusted expression on my face taking form, holding firmly in place as I pass man after man after woman after man. I can tell freedom is just up ahead as I feel less of the heat created by the bodies and the breath and more of the cool night air streaming in from the entrance way.
The pungent smell of desperation leaves my nose as the night takes its place. I am alone on the street amass with revellers and out here it doesn’t seem so bad.
A shiver makes its way down my spine as I blow into my hands in an attempt to warm them. The night is over for me; a few things are over for me in this moment.
Sunny Side Up
During the lunch interview I ask Ms Adams what she thinks of Amy Winehouse. She says she thinks she was a porn baby. I ask what this means and she tells me that a porn baby is a child conceived accidentally by its adult actress mother during filming. I suspect she doesn’t really mean it; it’s just something clever, albeit cruel to say, something fitting due to Amy’s drug habit and lady of the night-like appearance. I say she is the way she is because of her good for nothing husband, I say he ruined her, introduced her to this bottom feeder lifestyle, maybe because she was so talented and he couldn’t bear to see her succeed. Or he was just an asshole.
Ms Adams shrugs and takes another sip of her mint tea, staring listlessly out the cafe window. It’s a warm morning, the kind you always wished for when you were young, the kind you could rarely enjoy now.
I ponder the menu, in the mood for something sweet. She, Ms Adams, tells me of the time when she was 9, I think syrup waffle, vanilla ice cream. When she was 9 her name was Melissa Goodman. She lived in a nondescript neighbourhood somewhere near the Hollywood sign. She lived with both her parents who were married, to other people. Two dads and two moms. It was confusing when she was younger but as she grew up she learnt to hate them all the same. What chance did they honestly attempt to give her to come out right when most kids had only their actual parents and still turned out bad? Melissa Goodman sometimes thought she was lucky, blessed, she tells me, until she received an unwelcomed surprise in the form of an unrelated brother. When she was 9, she tells me, Devon, said unrelated brother decided he wanted to learn how to drive, without a teacher. He made Melissa open the garage door and keep a look out for any adult-type figures and give him fair warning if she saw one. Melissa stood dutifully in the driveway, wanting desperately to impress and befriend this monster who had invaded her home, her things, and her life. She hardly had an inkling of how he came to be in the first place but she knew she had to accept him and learn to live with him, even after he hit her over the head with a golf club giving her 15 stitches, even after he poured steaming water all down her leg.
As her head was turned to the right, squinting into the sun she heard the roar of the car’s engine, nervous, she turned quickly to the left to make sure no one was coming and before she had time to look straight ahead or run out of the way, Devon had reversed right over her.
She spent 5 weeks in hospital and not once did he come to visit, or apologize. Both sets of parents put the calamity down to silly children’s games gone wrong and not a word was said regarding it ever again. Well, at least not in the presence of Melissa Goodman, who left home approximately 7 years later.
I listen attentively as I try to picture Ms Adams as that little girl on the driveway. I imagine what her natural hair colour must have been, I suspect ash blonde but I can’t be sure. I try to imagine innocence in her eyes, hurt and disappointment are easier to place there.
I ask her about her upcoming wedding and she sighs, almost woefully. I say almost because she is about to wed an extremely wealthy man and I can tell she is more than ok with this happening. Her first husband, he was a pig of a spectacular kind; he died of a heart attack mid orgasm. Ms Adams happened to be overseas at the time, at a spa in Jamaica after citing exhaustion.
“Boy don’t try to front I (I) know just just what you are (are are)...”
Ms Adams begins to tap her fingers on the linoleum table surface, humming to the pop song playing softly on a speaker somewhere far away.
“You got me goin’...”
The yellow haired waitress walks by and I put my hand up self consciously to get her attention. She looks at me, arching her left eyebrow expectantly. I say I want the chocolate brownie, with chocolate ice cream. Oh, and another cup of coffee.
“You’re oh so charmin’...”
I’m looking forward to it she says. She had the dress custom made of course, its silky white. She says she thought of a different colour, not white, as she is hardly a virgin any longer, but she figured it just seems more wedding-y with a white dress and all the traditional trimmings. She had no desire to now, after 34 years, be different. That is the last thing she wanted, she said.
“But I can’t do it...”
I make a note in my inconspicuous notepad. What is your fiancé like, I ask. She shrugs that nonchalant shrug and half smiles half scowls.
From what I gather he’s a busy man, a late worker, something to do with finance. I’m half listening now.
“U womanizer...”
I wonder vaguely when this song will end as my brownie is placed in front of me together with a hot cup of caffeine. How long has it been playing?
How long have I been sitting in this cafe with Gabriella Adams, with all her world famousness and beauty?
The marriage soon to take place seems insignificant now as I sit across from her, seems uninteresting in comparison to her herself. How she got to where she is now is a question I feel I don’t need to ask, I feel I know the answer, it seems obvious. I resolve to just enjoy and savour my remaining moments with her, pushing aside tempting questions into her infamous personal life and exploits. She seems medicated, sedated, probably she is and I don’t care because like so many in the world around us I am just happy to be here in her light, sharing her air, watching her every move. She doesn’t look happy, in the real sense of the word, but that’s what we want, isn’t it?
This woman, this seeming antithesis of the almost tragic Amy Winehouse, stares out into the day and I wonder what she wonders.
What is the truth?
Ms Adams shrugs and takes another sip of her mint tea, staring listlessly out the cafe window. It’s a warm morning, the kind you always wished for when you were young, the kind you could rarely enjoy now.
I ponder the menu, in the mood for something sweet. She, Ms Adams, tells me of the time when she was 9, I think syrup waffle, vanilla ice cream. When she was 9 her name was Melissa Goodman. She lived in a nondescript neighbourhood somewhere near the Hollywood sign. She lived with both her parents who were married, to other people. Two dads and two moms. It was confusing when she was younger but as she grew up she learnt to hate them all the same. What chance did they honestly attempt to give her to come out right when most kids had only their actual parents and still turned out bad? Melissa Goodman sometimes thought she was lucky, blessed, she tells me, until she received an unwelcomed surprise in the form of an unrelated brother. When she was 9, she tells me, Devon, said unrelated brother decided he wanted to learn how to drive, without a teacher. He made Melissa open the garage door and keep a look out for any adult-type figures and give him fair warning if she saw one. Melissa stood dutifully in the driveway, wanting desperately to impress and befriend this monster who had invaded her home, her things, and her life. She hardly had an inkling of how he came to be in the first place but she knew she had to accept him and learn to live with him, even after he hit her over the head with a golf club giving her 15 stitches, even after he poured steaming water all down her leg.
As her head was turned to the right, squinting into the sun she heard the roar of the car’s engine, nervous, she turned quickly to the left to make sure no one was coming and before she had time to look straight ahead or run out of the way, Devon had reversed right over her.
She spent 5 weeks in hospital and not once did he come to visit, or apologize. Both sets of parents put the calamity down to silly children’s games gone wrong and not a word was said regarding it ever again. Well, at least not in the presence of Melissa Goodman, who left home approximately 7 years later.
I listen attentively as I try to picture Ms Adams as that little girl on the driveway. I imagine what her natural hair colour must have been, I suspect ash blonde but I can’t be sure. I try to imagine innocence in her eyes, hurt and disappointment are easier to place there.
I ask her about her upcoming wedding and she sighs, almost woefully. I say almost because she is about to wed an extremely wealthy man and I can tell she is more than ok with this happening. Her first husband, he was a pig of a spectacular kind; he died of a heart attack mid orgasm. Ms Adams happened to be overseas at the time, at a spa in Jamaica after citing exhaustion.
“Boy don’t try to front I (I) know just just what you are (are are)...”
Ms Adams begins to tap her fingers on the linoleum table surface, humming to the pop song playing softly on a speaker somewhere far away.
“You got me goin’...”
The yellow haired waitress walks by and I put my hand up self consciously to get her attention. She looks at me, arching her left eyebrow expectantly. I say I want the chocolate brownie, with chocolate ice cream. Oh, and another cup of coffee.
“You’re oh so charmin’...”
I’m looking forward to it she says. She had the dress custom made of course, its silky white. She says she thought of a different colour, not white, as she is hardly a virgin any longer, but she figured it just seems more wedding-y with a white dress and all the traditional trimmings. She had no desire to now, after 34 years, be different. That is the last thing she wanted, she said.
“But I can’t do it...”
I make a note in my inconspicuous notepad. What is your fiancé like, I ask. She shrugs that nonchalant shrug and half smiles half scowls.
From what I gather he’s a busy man, a late worker, something to do with finance. I’m half listening now.
“U womanizer...”
I wonder vaguely when this song will end as my brownie is placed in front of me together with a hot cup of caffeine. How long has it been playing?
How long have I been sitting in this cafe with Gabriella Adams, with all her world famousness and beauty?
The marriage soon to take place seems insignificant now as I sit across from her, seems uninteresting in comparison to her herself. How she got to where she is now is a question I feel I don’t need to ask, I feel I know the answer, it seems obvious. I resolve to just enjoy and savour my remaining moments with her, pushing aside tempting questions into her infamous personal life and exploits. She seems medicated, sedated, probably she is and I don’t care because like so many in the world around us I am just happy to be here in her light, sharing her air, watching her every move. She doesn’t look happy, in the real sense of the word, but that’s what we want, isn’t it?
This woman, this seeming antithesis of the almost tragic Amy Winehouse, stares out into the day and I wonder what she wonders.
What is the truth?
Valentine’s Day or; Bastard Creation
An unbeautiful day, whence love is advertised and sold or; a day, pure in nature, to celebrate loves magnificence.
An insult to loves woes is the comparison between getting hit with an arrow by Cupid to the distress love sometimes causes.
To the single; an inappropriate date,
To the loved; a romantic conception.
It seems one never has an identical reaction to Valentine’s Day every year. This year you may be in love and looking forward to it, or simply feel indifferent toward it, whereas last year it could have been a source of offence, a day to dread, a day to curse.
A flurry of red hearts and teddy bears in store windows mark the day’s coming rather boldly, often a long time prior to the actual day, and it begs the question: what’s it really all about? Money? Should we be so cynical, should we not just enjoy the romance of the day, buying heart shaped chocolates and sweetly scented cards, a mass of glitter and red? I wonder if I feel it is all about money making for card companies and restaurants, or if it is a day when lovers truly wish to acknowledge the importance of their significant other in their lives.
Because love is the most important thing in life and people are aware of it, so why shouldn’t they want to celebrate it? But...
Shouldn’t love, of any age, be a celebratory occasion every day?
You should be able to feel so loved every day; and I do, I am. I would wish it on anybody; everybody.
Happy Valentine’s Day my beautiful Fiancé. You are and always will be the love of my existence.
An insult to loves woes is the comparison between getting hit with an arrow by Cupid to the distress love sometimes causes.
To the single; an inappropriate date,
To the loved; a romantic conception.
It seems one never has an identical reaction to Valentine’s Day every year. This year you may be in love and looking forward to it, or simply feel indifferent toward it, whereas last year it could have been a source of offence, a day to dread, a day to curse.
A flurry of red hearts and teddy bears in store windows mark the day’s coming rather boldly, often a long time prior to the actual day, and it begs the question: what’s it really all about? Money? Should we be so cynical, should we not just enjoy the romance of the day, buying heart shaped chocolates and sweetly scented cards, a mass of glitter and red? I wonder if I feel it is all about money making for card companies and restaurants, or if it is a day when lovers truly wish to acknowledge the importance of their significant other in their lives.
Because love is the most important thing in life and people are aware of it, so why shouldn’t they want to celebrate it? But...
Shouldn’t love, of any age, be a celebratory occasion every day?
You should be able to feel so loved every day; and I do, I am. I would wish it on anybody; everybody.
Happy Valentine’s Day my beautiful Fiancé. You are and always will be the love of my existence.
My Midsummer Night's Dream
As black as the most starless sky, the darkest of nights; yet as iridescent as still water beneath a sky amass with stars and the brightest, fullest moon. My hair is this mass of wavy black shimmer, pulled into a tidy bun on the nape of my neck and my fringe; a neat mess on my forehead. My eyes glow, lights and love reflected in the green. My lips are full, blood red.
Sliding my hands down the sides of my adorned body - the material is the colour of my hair, silky under my fingertips – I grab the roses as red as my lips and step forward and instantly feel the immense weight of eyes on every inch of me. People will talk, I knew they would, and I‘ve never felt so beautiful. As my eyes wonder excitedly, instantly to the front of the room, I see he thinks so too.
Ooh’s and ah’s and flashes; I walk. My eyes rimmed black graze over the faces I love – the girls; natural and box dye blondes, brunettes, straightened curls and curled thin hair already falling flat, the boys; a combination of slickly gelled and bed-head - and the face I love the most. And there my eyes stay; they cannot be anywhere else now.
I can feel as my perfect pout begins to transform into a wide smile, of the goofy variety, I don’t care. I’m walking toward a life with open arms as I never thought I would. My skin feels warm underneath, as if my blood has been boiled and then poured into my veins.
The two girls who stand up for me look like the brides in their pretty white frocks; an innocent aura surrounds them as they smile at me, getting closer and closer. Having them stand there being one of very few things we’ve done traditionally on this day; him and I, original in every way.
Now, as I near the end of the aisle and reach the future, the slow motion I seem to have been travelling in speeds up to a preferred pace; not unlike my habit of always walking ahead: I just want to be next to him. This person I could never live through losing, he holds my life and I his.
Marriage – always an interesting, albeit confusing concept to me – to promise somebody that you will love them till the day you cease breathing. How could you? Hard for me to wrap my mind around the vows when all over the world, everyday, they’re being broken; until I knew him.
I am certain.
And this dream, this day, was written so long ago, somewhere. In the stars?
Sliding my hands down the sides of my adorned body - the material is the colour of my hair, silky under my fingertips – I grab the roses as red as my lips and step forward and instantly feel the immense weight of eyes on every inch of me. People will talk, I knew they would, and I‘ve never felt so beautiful. As my eyes wonder excitedly, instantly to the front of the room, I see he thinks so too.
Ooh’s and ah’s and flashes; I walk. My eyes rimmed black graze over the faces I love – the girls; natural and box dye blondes, brunettes, straightened curls and curled thin hair already falling flat, the boys; a combination of slickly gelled and bed-head - and the face I love the most. And there my eyes stay; they cannot be anywhere else now.
I can feel as my perfect pout begins to transform into a wide smile, of the goofy variety, I don’t care. I’m walking toward a life with open arms as I never thought I would. My skin feels warm underneath, as if my blood has been boiled and then poured into my veins.
The two girls who stand up for me look like the brides in their pretty white frocks; an innocent aura surrounds them as they smile at me, getting closer and closer. Having them stand there being one of very few things we’ve done traditionally on this day; him and I, original in every way.
Now, as I near the end of the aisle and reach the future, the slow motion I seem to have been travelling in speeds up to a preferred pace; not unlike my habit of always walking ahead: I just want to be next to him. This person I could never live through losing, he holds my life and I his.
Marriage – always an interesting, albeit confusing concept to me – to promise somebody that you will love them till the day you cease breathing. How could you? Hard for me to wrap my mind around the vows when all over the world, everyday, they’re being broken; until I knew him.
I am certain.
And this dream, this day, was written so long ago, somewhere. In the stars?
February 4, 2009
Social Ceremony
Nothing could be more absurd, I thought as I bounded up the stairs, or more amusing, I pondered as I looked down on the crowd below.
An incalculable amount of acquaintances, and more to meet still; unwelcomed introductions and politely insincere smiles between strangers, I fought a powerful urge to turn and flee from this event, a little piece of hell here on earth.
I recognized sparsely scattered faces and spotted the guest of honour, whom I used to know quite well, walking toward the buffet table in the centre of the room. It was beautiful, the room; marble floors shining like liquid with the assistance of the lights above; a massive chandelier in the middle surrounded by its many minions.
I targeted her and walked swiftly in that exact direction, not looking anywhere else but in front of me, mildly concentrating on not getting my dress stuck in the heels of my shoes. Damn formal soirees.
She looked up, slight recognition in her eyes and there appeared a fragmentary smile and the inevitable greeting. Before I knew it I was caught up in a bear hug, a soft, excited scream in my ear.
And so began a night of hugs and screams and wow, how long has it been’s.
The music played relentlessly, and loudly, as I swayed and sipped my champagne, I smiled sweetly at people I vaguely knew and put in a word here and there in random conversations about new employments and failed marriages, travels and pregnancies and I stifled a yawn as the clock struck 10:00.
I couldn’t believe I was here again, in this room with these people. Hadn’t I been adamant that I would never subject myself to this company, this mindless chatter again? Doubtless I had been quilted by the hostess, but why did I succumb? Hadn’t that very quality also been dead and buried in me for what seemed like an eternity. It had been almost an eternity since I last saw some of these faces and I wondered to myself what we had had in common all those years ago, if anything. This felt not unlike a high school reunion, and I felt more relieved as the minutes ticked by bringing me closer to freedom, bringing me closer to breathing.
I realised I knew no one.
Not even the guest of honour. She had been a friend in my formative years; an integral part of my life back then, but who was she now? And when had we drifted so far apart? I couldn’t remember a time or an event, or a moment when it happened; it had just happened.
All I knew was that I wasn’t that person they knew, and they were not the people I had known and as I stood there dragging on a cigarette I realised I was a stranger to them. I had a life so far removed from the one of yesteryears and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This was not and hadn’t been the place I belonged, the life I had chosen and I felt glad I had made that choice. I was surrounded by an immense amount of phoniness and it made me uncomfortable.
I glanced at my watch; it read 11:25, an acceptable time to leave if ever there was one, I thought. I knew the goodbyes would take at least 10 minutes so I looked around to see if I could spot the hostess, my former friend.
I saw her sitting down across the room and walked over, bracing myself. She looked in my direction and before I opened my mouth her words reached me. You’re leaving already? She asked, unsurprised, resigned. I felt something like remorse but not quite, and then I remembered the beginning of the end of this part of my life.
I had removed myself slowly, leaving earlier and earlier and eventually declining invites all together.
They came looking for me, and sometimes they found me, but I wasn’t the same, and neither were they.
And as I walked out of this life for the second time, I breathed in the cool night air and smiled.
I had chosen my life, and the people in it.
An incalculable amount of acquaintances, and more to meet still; unwelcomed introductions and politely insincere smiles between strangers, I fought a powerful urge to turn and flee from this event, a little piece of hell here on earth.
I recognized sparsely scattered faces and spotted the guest of honour, whom I used to know quite well, walking toward the buffet table in the centre of the room. It was beautiful, the room; marble floors shining like liquid with the assistance of the lights above; a massive chandelier in the middle surrounded by its many minions.
I targeted her and walked swiftly in that exact direction, not looking anywhere else but in front of me, mildly concentrating on not getting my dress stuck in the heels of my shoes. Damn formal soirees.
She looked up, slight recognition in her eyes and there appeared a fragmentary smile and the inevitable greeting. Before I knew it I was caught up in a bear hug, a soft, excited scream in my ear.
And so began a night of hugs and screams and wow, how long has it been’s.
The music played relentlessly, and loudly, as I swayed and sipped my champagne, I smiled sweetly at people I vaguely knew and put in a word here and there in random conversations about new employments and failed marriages, travels and pregnancies and I stifled a yawn as the clock struck 10:00.
I couldn’t believe I was here again, in this room with these people. Hadn’t I been adamant that I would never subject myself to this company, this mindless chatter again? Doubtless I had been quilted by the hostess, but why did I succumb? Hadn’t that very quality also been dead and buried in me for what seemed like an eternity. It had been almost an eternity since I last saw some of these faces and I wondered to myself what we had had in common all those years ago, if anything. This felt not unlike a high school reunion, and I felt more relieved as the minutes ticked by bringing me closer to freedom, bringing me closer to breathing.
I realised I knew no one.
Not even the guest of honour. She had been a friend in my formative years; an integral part of my life back then, but who was she now? And when had we drifted so far apart? I couldn’t remember a time or an event, or a moment when it happened; it had just happened.
All I knew was that I wasn’t that person they knew, and they were not the people I had known and as I stood there dragging on a cigarette I realised I was a stranger to them. I had a life so far removed from the one of yesteryears and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. This was not and hadn’t been the place I belonged, the life I had chosen and I felt glad I had made that choice. I was surrounded by an immense amount of phoniness and it made me uncomfortable.
I glanced at my watch; it read 11:25, an acceptable time to leave if ever there was one, I thought. I knew the goodbyes would take at least 10 minutes so I looked around to see if I could spot the hostess, my former friend.
I saw her sitting down across the room and walked over, bracing myself. She looked in my direction and before I opened my mouth her words reached me. You’re leaving already? She asked, unsurprised, resigned. I felt something like remorse but not quite, and then I remembered the beginning of the end of this part of my life.
I had removed myself slowly, leaving earlier and earlier and eventually declining invites all together.
They came looking for me, and sometimes they found me, but I wasn’t the same, and neither were they.
And as I walked out of this life for the second time, I breathed in the cool night air and smiled.
I had chosen my life, and the people in it.
The Edge of No Return
Walking to edge of no return, they laugh, a scowl; a howl,
Minds blank or filled with too much, they begin
The plan, which seems more impulsive
But a plan nonetheless.
They lose themselves today
Or perhaps the two were lost a time ago,
When ideas were formed and decisions made;
Innocence betrayed.
Superior and justified; they want fame, notoriety and mayhem,
Their anger is the anger of thousands,
A lesson to be taught by them; the youth -
They will make the world pay and we will be intrigued
With the weapons of man and mind,
They will kill.
They walk and stand on the edge, a hesitant moment doesn’t last;
They begin.
Minds blank or filled with too much, they begin
The plan, which seems more impulsive
But a plan nonetheless.
They lose themselves today
Or perhaps the two were lost a time ago,
When ideas were formed and decisions made;
Innocence betrayed.
Superior and justified; they want fame, notoriety and mayhem,
Their anger is the anger of thousands,
A lesson to be taught by them; the youth -
They will make the world pay and we will be intrigued
With the weapons of man and mind,
They will kill.
They walk and stand on the edge, a hesitant moment doesn’t last;
They begin.
Strip
Eyes like a wild animal, like a dog, saliva almost visible at the corners of his old mouth and sweaty, sticky, wrinkled hands. He fills an emptiness.
Wide, eager pupils dilate, mouth ajar, perspiration streaming down the sides of his young face. He fulfils a curiosity.
A judgmental stare from a girl with a flat chest and a boyfriend who brought her here; for fun. Her eyes scrutinize every inch of the body before her. She feeds her insecurity.
Oily limbs, silicone breasts and 3 hours a day spent in an air conditioned health centre. She peeks through the red velvet curtain and her stomach slowly begins to untie itself.
She will walk out and bare herself to a room full of strangers and feel something like terror and relief, something like sex and dirt.
And she’ll see herself in the audience.
Stripped.
Wide, eager pupils dilate, mouth ajar, perspiration streaming down the sides of his young face. He fulfils a curiosity.
A judgmental stare from a girl with a flat chest and a boyfriend who brought her here; for fun. Her eyes scrutinize every inch of the body before her. She feeds her insecurity.
Oily limbs, silicone breasts and 3 hours a day spent in an air conditioned health centre. She peeks through the red velvet curtain and her stomach slowly begins to untie itself.
She will walk out and bare herself to a room full of strangers and feel something like terror and relief, something like sex and dirt.
And she’ll see herself in the audience.
Stripped.
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