Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Fractured Light

Speeding up a long afternoon freeway, winter sun glorious and low, rays strobed; daytime shattered by the shadows of ten thousand trees.

She is driving. Set mouth. Day-weary face of freckles and fatigue. Tear-glossed eyes - dry by the grace of G-d(less self-preserving control) - behind large, dark glasses. Music, loud. Very loud.

Picture it ("Sicily, 1933 ..." - no, wait) - music so pulsing the image is made a silent film; even words spoken to herself muted by the utterness of sound; even breath and heartbeat blotted out.

And so, no sound; only thinking.

Thinking of herself on a dancefloor. Imaginary self a stomping Joan Jett wannabe, a black-booted and leather-jeaned stretch of negative space around which everything in the world creates a void. Imaginary self swirling and swirling, the music all a turning, swaying to the sound of the demonic beat ...

She might have become many things.


Somewhere beneath the promise of the girl with a gold locket, she is (still and too) the result of the threat of that out-thrust lip, that early violence and anger, that thing she didn't have to be and half aspired to be, and - almost forgotten - sometimes regrets that she isn't. The bummed cigs and boys' jackets, the always-magenta lipstick, the resentment of her own privilege - ahh, the boys who weren't; the friends who weren't. The girl who hated admitting she went to the preppie school, the rich kids' domains. Could not bear to be one of *them* ...

... and yet never was successfully anything else, either ...






Sometimes ... sorrow is, in us, the most brutish, juvenile rebellion. Sometimes, it is a look into possibilities - who we might have been, when the skin of who we are is so tight that surely it must split and we break free, new and unmade and ready to take shape again.

Sometimes, you have to let the sun strobe to prove it has not died yet, and that you are not in the dark.


And sometimes, you have to listen to deathless music at top volume. And dance; even if only in your head.

5 comments:

Lilac Shoshani said...

Such stunning writing, leaves me breathless...I've missed you, Diane. And I'll dance too. <3 What a delight to see your pictures.

DLM said...

Hello, Lilac! I spotted you at Donna's and it gave me a smile. And thank you so much ... as you might imagine, it was a bit of a day yesterday.

There was a time I might have troubled to be embarrassed at my old pics, but yesterday they were just necessary to the post. So thank goodness, if they weren't too traumatic!

Donnaeve said...

Beautiful writing.

I'm about to get over my age too. I think.

Not sure I'd be so brave as to post my old HS pics - especially ones that screamed late bloomer.

I hope the days have been better since...?

DLM said...

Heh ... Well, above the waist I didn't bloom till I was past 30, but with the, ah, center of gravity well established by the time I was 14, I don't suppose I was *too* late a bloomer.

And thank you - whatever Tuesday was, it did the trick, I seem to have decompressed. Now I can concentrate on a certain someone who has not.

TCM said...

The first picture takes me back...