Isolation

Me. Day 46.

Height: 5' 6"
Weight: 105 lbs.
chest:: 34"
waist: 24"
hips: 34"
Wrist: 5"
Shoe size: 6 (US)
Hair: 24"
Age: indeterminate, possibly ancient

From here on my patch of ground, I measure things. The length of the grass. My body. Time. It all changes gradually, like cloud shapes on a still afternoon. It's not that I mind the isolation, I don't. It's an opportunity for quiet reflection. Sometimes, however, there's a risk of equating this with helplessness, and so I measure things, assuring myself of some gradual progress, like the sun across the sky.

I try not to think about stilted dreams and unfulfilled longings. No, that's a lie. I think about them all the time. I think them quietly to myself, where I don't have to defang them with humor, or make them pretty for public consumption.

 I think about jealousy, and envy, and how I sometimes suffer them myself even while trying to deflect them from others, even though I know all this competition is a social construct that's been ingrained in us, and lacks much inherent value of its own.

I think about philosophy, and psychology, and the strictures that come with studying the mind when it doesn't account for the soul. I think about the soul, too (do they think and feel, can they be quantumly entangled like diamonds?) all the while knowing that all of our best answers are guesses.

And then there is reality itself, and the perception of such, and whether reality changes or only our perception does. ("Reality" according to Nabokov, being one of those words that mean nothing without quotation marks.)

I think about these things during chores and in between lessons, and while I'm conditioning my hair and polishing my skin (because expectations of beauty are still high even in a quarantine) and hoping that I will understand more by the time this is over, but knowing that I may not ever understand anything at all.

At the very least I will keep on with my measuring.

Wreath Of Roses

Just because it's so beautiful, it blows my mind. Even the statue with its weapon is helpless against a whirl of rose petals in the wind.

Mademoiselle

Blood Of A Virgin lip tint*

When I was a young girl, I lived and died by the fashion magazine. I eagerly sought out big, fat issues of Vogue and Cosmo and Mademoiselle. The dream-world of fashion editorials, for all their artifice, seemed like so much potential. That's the allure, of course. That this could be you, for the right products and the right price.

The articles I also absorbed with great fervor. A handbook, nay, a shortcut to sophistication. So what if you're 12 years old from the boonies, you could learn to manage your jet-set lifestyle while flitting from your cold water flat in the Village to your pied-a-terre in Monmartre. You hardly needed money, even. A pretty face was your best accessory. Just stick a pair of chopsticks through your messy updo and a swipe of color across your lips and voila, you were ready to go.

It's compelling stuff. Ridiculous, but compelling, especially when you're very young. Funny how things look from the vantage point of age.

There was one article in particular I remember, and that's what's on my mind tonight. It must have been in Mademoiselle, as they would occasionally print such a wistful, philosophical piece. The writer was a young woman who had run into her old lover unexpectedly, and had Feelings about it.

The lover was a sexy (it's implied) Englishman who was Far Too Old for her, so of course it could never work, but they happen to bump into each other at an understated yet glamorous cafe and so they have coffee and madeleines and talk about things. When their meeting ends, the couple again part, sadly and longingly but knowing it's for the best.

I'm dredging this up from 30 years ago, so details are fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure this is where I got the idea that eating madeleines was symbolic of doomed romance. Also, the article gave me ideas. It filled me with the sort of anguish one only feels as an adolescent, wondering if such a grown up thing would ever happen to them. Not only having such a lover, but having a past with that lover. A yearning, gnawing, hopeless affair. What was it like? There were so many experiences I'd never had.

What I never imagined was that I'd grow up into the kind of person who doesn't enjoy this sort of thing at all. That I'd have the kinds of relationships that were so difficult to extricate myself from that no trace of wistfulness could remain. Or that when a man would break up with me, I'd soon regard our relationship as akin to a bout of food poisoning. When he would return, he'd be surprised to find I felt about him no differently than a bad muffuletta from the deli; why on earth would I want another bite?

So it's with great regret I must inform my younger self that she won't be having sad madeleines with old Englishmen while looking winsome in her shades and cashmere coat. Or her pouf skirt and ballet flats, for that matter, marvelous lipcolor not withstanding. She won't even be drinking wine out a bag with Kevin or Bryan or Ben. The past is a county that's fun to roam, but ex-lovers lay behind a locked gate without a key.

Not even a hand of glory or the blood of a virgin can open it.


*I admit I stole the idea for the art, but at least I did use my own lips. 

Coffee After Midnight

When  you are able to take a night drive with your beloved, and you have change for a cup of coffee, even the most ordinary symbol can become beautiful.

The M stands for McDonald's but maybe also Mysterious, Mystical, Midnight, More.

Mountain Laurel

Mountain laurels are one of my favorite trees. Luckily they grow wild in the woods nearby. The air is full of their grape pixie-stix smell. Or grape Kool-Aid, whichever you prefer.

We don't have bluebell woods here, so mountain laurel season might be the closest thing to the same effect. We do have nice wild flowers, but they grow in full sun. It's rare to find such colorful blossoms in the shade.  

There's a fairy-tale sort of feel about them, their luminous color and of course, the scent. It's as if the air itself is purple, like these filters make it seem...

The blooms only last a few weeks, but they are lovely while they last.

The Mouth Of Truth

 His beauty is ineffably ancient and strange.

photo credit: 

By xiquinhosilva from Cacau - 10552 - Rome - Bocca della Verita, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=30177734 

The End

Suddenly, my time in this place is at an end. It wasn't long ago that I thought I'd never make it out. Now I'm about to go back the way I came. Almost. I came here with a lot of hope. Things were looking up then, but it didn't last. The despair is like the humidity and the pollution - always present, always oppressive. It's hard to breathe here. It's also hard to leave. Isolation and low wages make an effective trap. Of those who manage to go, far more are running away in desperation than running toward a better opportunity. Like most of my friends before me, I'm one of the former. Still, anyone who lives in a place so long must have some attachments. If nothing else, it's familiar. You know the best angle of sunlight at which time of day. You have your favorite route for walking, or the corner of the bookstore you like best. You find a certain comfort in the habits of your neighbors.

 In places like these, beauty is indeed relative. You must pay attention to notice it leaking through the cracks in the sidewalk or in the jumbled words of a schizophrenic man. Beauty which must be searched for is that much more valuable. But...today is the last time for many of these things. They'll continue to exist, yes, but without me. Now we tie up loose ends the best we can, retrace our daily steps knowing that this won't be happening again. What was ordinary unexpectedly becomes poignant. Tomorrow, I'll never see this house again. At least, not from where I sit tonight.

 

It hasn't been much, but it's all I've had for years. Sometimes, even prisoners are afraid when it's time to be freed.