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On Brightly Colored Silk - A little less than a happy high
komos
komos
On Brightly Colored Silk
I arrived home last night to find a delicate pink silk scarf draped over the candle holder that adorns the wall next to my door. If this was meant to be an elaboration on the old college dorm "sock on the doorknob" its meaning was lost on me. This was in part because Joe and I have never discussed such a signal, and otherwise because I didn't feel like being shut from my home just because my roommate was on a frolic.

I opened the door and though I thought I had heard movement upstairs, ultimately I found no one. I was relieved, really. Though I wouldn’t have had a problem if non-bedroom facilities were... in use, I would rather not have that bit of uncomfortable silence that would probably have occurred had I gotten an eyeful. I've never been particularly fussy about that sort of thing, but Joe and I do tend to be fairly private people.

As I sat alone, I found myself fixating on the scarf, puzzling over whose it could be or what it meant. It was a beautiful piece, knotted at one end and carefully placed to draw attention to itself. It is possible that there was no real intention behind it, but scarves are one of those artifacts that come weighted with their own associations and meanings for me. As a fashion choice, they seem curiously out of time. Every woman I've known who has habitually worn scarves has been a romantic, able to find the poetry in most everything around them. They were arty, eccentric, and somehow, utterly beautiful.

P... is about the best example I can draw up from the depths. She was a writer and poet, and she exemplified the kind fearlessness I've come to associate with artists. She had an acute sense of the truest nature of things, and when you read her work or sat and talked to her for any length of time, it felt almost as though she had cut away all that was unnessary and given you something entirely new. I don't think I've ever known anyone who was more capable of altering perception through her words. There was something magical in it.

She always wore her hair up, and was rarely seen without some sort of scarf around her neck. It always seemed that her sexuality was held in check. It was available, accessible, but somehow bound, that energy held back in order to more fully experience things without the petty distraction. I know that she did have lovers, but never once did a she let a relationship define her.

Now obviously, she was not perfect, nor did her fashion statements give her any of the qualities I so admired. Still, I so remember her fondly, and whenever I see another young woman sitting underneath a tree, scratching away in a notebook, I do wonder just how much like P... she might be, and moreso if I see a scarf tied about her neck.

It's become something of a convenient mental footnote.

Current Mood: nostalgic nostalgic

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Comments
hieeee From: hieeee Date: October 2nd, 2002 04:20 pm (UTC) (Link)

Surprised?

Surprised at my reaction to your journal? No, I was not. Every entry is so in-depth. I would love to talk to you some time.
komos From: komos Date: October 3rd, 2002 07:12 am (UTC) (Link)

In case I don't say this enough, thank you...

You may not have been, but I was. I don't know... it might fall into the whole "my own worst critic" school of thought, but I very rarely have an sense that I'm worth reading. I feel like my writing is too clumsy and too deliberate. Most of the time, I feel more like a craftsman than an artist.

wisdom_seeker tells me that I write a lot like I speak, and I guess I can kind of see that, if only because I'm fairly self-conscious in both realms. That and I have a habit for non-sequitor, but that's another story entirely. ;)

And sure, I'd like that. Have to arrange something at some point...
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