The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

like a piece of fruit in a Caravaggio

"like a piece of fruit in a Caravaggio" 

Caravaggio was a baroque painter who was a little crazy, or so the story goes. A murderer, a brawler, a genius, a possible homosexual, and he liked to paint fruits and biblical beheadings. While I’m not one for religious inspired art, it’s tough to dismiss the talent this man had. Gorgeous work, even if it is a little frightening, and I’d hang it on my wall if I had the option. He died mysteriously, his body never publicly buried, and became dust somewhere in Tuscany, or so they say.

I prefer Vermeer and John Singer Sargent, but that’s me.

***
I’m not an American, but I will watch the debate. I am longing to see McCain stumble and fall, mostly because I am annoyed by his pick for a running mate. Before that, McCain simply represented a set of values which didn’t work for me, but now I am a little disgusted by him. It’s like he didn’t look at this woman’s background at all, though it doesn’t seem possible that he would blindly choose a woman simply because she is just that, a woman. I am disgusted by the legions of people out there who see her as something of a ‘rock star’. Who wants a ‘rock star’ to run their country? Oh wait, yeah, the same people who thought an actor should have.

The rest of the world is watching, and we’d be amused if it weren’t so damned scary that some citizens of the ‘best country in the world’ are deliberately trying to sink it. How else do you explain the idiocy? The hypocrisy? Honestly, folks, we’re looking at you and we’re trying to figure out what some of you are thinking. From here, the choice is an obvious one, but sadly, it doesn’t matter what we think.

Vote Obama. I don’t care if I shouldn’t have an opinion. I said it, and I mean it.

***

I used to shop at a vintage clothing store called ’The Black Market’. I loved it so much, with its creaky stairs and the floors that bowed as we walked over them. It smelled old and musty, but it was a welcoming smell. The sales clerks didn’t care if you shopped there or not, with their fruit punch coloured hair, tattooed arms, army boots up to their thigh, piercings on everything they could stick a needle through. My friends and I would sift for hours, coming up with the greatest things, like old naval uniforms or band jackets, which we’d wear with jeans, or antique lace tops, vintage hats, faux fur coats that smelled like wartime and love letters. It was a destination shop, until we got older and became disenchanted with clothing other people had worn. Rather than seeming edgy and different, they seemed…used.

Age has a way changing perspective. It makes you want to wear things without fingerprints or lingering sweat stains.

***
I hate all of my clothes, which makes little sense given that I’m the one who bought them. I am offended by the blacks which are filmed over with a fuzz of white or grey. I am annoyed by the silver blouse with the intricate beadwork because it’s beautiful, but it goes with nothing. I hate the long cardigan with the belt around the hips because it’s awkward and it always come undone. Every pair of pants I own is hostile in their own way. It’s not a pleasure getting dressed in the morning.

I think I gravitate toward the pretty things, but more often than not, I go for classic pretty. My reason for this is simple: it’s cheaper to dress this way. A black cardigan from 1999 is still fashionable now and I‘ve no need to buy a new one. My reasoning for not shopping at the low-priced fashion stores is also a matter of finance. If I shop somewhere and buy a blouse for ten dollars, and it falls apart (as they inevitably do) within a month or two, then I have to go buy another one. This is the beginning of a cycle. Not to mention, most of this stuff is made in China, and I’m fairly vocal about not buying things made there because it only strengthens their economy and reinforces bad behaviour (see child labour and substandard quality). It doesn’t leave me with much, but I stick with buying things made just about anywhere else, even if it is more expensive, because it lasts longer and my principles mean more to me than a bargain.

I worked in retail for thirteen years. I know how it works.

***

M. sent me an email the other day, a response to my request that he read and critique a poem of mine. He’s usually good for a critique. Anyway, it’s a little weird that we did this, given that his office is in the room next to this one and we hadn’t spoken in days, but his email was sensitive and carefully worded and I did not feel offended by his suggestions, or the fact that he went ahead and changed one of the lines. He signed it off, ‘Love ya’ which was a relief, because lately I’m not feeling love from any direction. I started to talk to him a little bit after that, moving from grunts to full sentences, and I’m aware that life is too short for fighting, even if Saturday night is right for it. I’d like to talk to him, but like most men, he has moved past all the drama and has settled into pretending it never happened, which bothers me. How does anyone get anything accomplished that way?

I might talk to him about what I’m thinking, that I am feeling alienated in some ways even if it’s not his intention, that he can be self-involved and distant at times, that he doesn’t appear to appreciate the things I do around here and I find that insulting. I don’t want a big blow-up, as is his usual response when he feels ‘accused’. In those moments I could rip his face off, because he tends to use semantics to get out of his share of the blame. Maybe I am accusing him of something, but my accusation and the way it makes him feel doesn’t mean he didn’t do it. Grow up, already.

I expect more from him at times. I expect more from this love.