Words with Friends

Sometimes I ask myself, "Why do I like writing, where did I first get bitten with my love of words?" I admit, the difference between reading and writing can occasionally feel like the change between an enchanting, ambling walk and a pushed-forward run.  (Though some reading does turn quite uphill, and the views are not always rewarding!)

Yet writing allows me to play with words, to weigh them and explore their interwoven complexities. I can taste them differently, feeling the smooth roundness of a certain word here, or nipping at the zesty sprinkling of this pair of phrases there. Writing is a place for discourse where I can acquaint myself with friends introduced through another writer's pen. Reading is where I congregate and glean my thought-mates. As I write, I can call them back, encountering them again in new circumstances. Sometimes I discover that the humor of this one now irks me, or that simple gem I once enjoyed is delightfully multifaceted. And perhaps when I return again to the same spot where I was first introduced to these new comrades, I will know something that our mutual friend, that author, does not know. And that is because the words and I now have our own connections and experiences, quite apart from that original encounter. Through these new words, I have seen unfamiliar angles I did not know before, and likewise, they perhaps have seen new light through me.

Now, I don't claim to be wholly impartial. There are word-friends whose company I enjoy more than others. Is this the limit of my writer's voice? Perhaps not, but it is, I think, the barometer of it. "Show me your friends, and I'll show you your future" the saying goes. I can arrange, encounter, and have my effect on them in various ways, but they can affect me as well. I change too. My penned friends can guide who I will become. These inklings introduce me to new ideas, reshaping my thoughts. And from my thoughts come attitudes, emotions, action. I will become what I think, so I'd best not leave the front door to my mind constantly open and unchecked. Choosing whom to entertain and when is necessary if I want to avoid a vandalized interior.


So where am I meeting these word friends? Who do I look to in steering my acquaintanceship? Those corridors upon pages, those mingling phrases that gab and dance to the rhythm of the bars of black and white, these are the places I go to meet my thought-mates and make my book-dates. Where I "go" is important. Formative even. Both for myself, and the body of work that these colloquies will create in company.

Now, I'd better put down my figurative pen and bid you adieu. I've got a humorous little text I've arranged a tête-à-tête with. So, picking up those lit bits where I will, I can have the fun of asking "shall we dance?"

An Androgynous Figure

Along the ancient streets of Bath, the rattle and taps of carriages and pedestrians echo upon the stone, where regency aristocrats amble along avenues paved by Roman hands, even further back. The wind wafts from grey clouded skies, and brings to my ear the sound of a lady's genteel laugh. I peer around to pinpoint the source of that trill, and I think I catch a passing glimpse of a man wielding top hat and cane. But sunlight breaks and imagination meets the day. The carriages have all gone horseless, and the man with the hat hoarsely reciting facts for shillings from passing strangers. The stately homes of the Royal Crescent seem to chide me of my folly, their curved posture reflecting back to me the remembrance of a time gone by. I study the buildings, but only long enough to wonder what must lie behind those drawn white curtains, and what histories must fill their unseen halls... But quickly brushing off the thought I fold up my imaginings and tuck them away, pressing forward to my destination. I don't pause long enough to notice the stretch of street smiling flatly, as the storied home's screened eyes intently follow me down the lane.

Museums seem to attract those with a historically recurring hobby of wonder. The sun is setting, and I am anxious to see all I can. I dart through the column archway and again through the open doors of the city's assembly ballrooms. Following a small group ahead of me, I peek above their heads and see the gleaming chandeliers of the dance hall. But as I come closer another path, an angled hallway just to my left, catches my eye. There, just at the point where the corridor turns beyond where I can see, is an arrow, pointing me forward--The museum's main attraction. My feet turn away from the group I had been trailing, and I follow the hallway around the corner and out of sight.  I stop before a door, and turn it's handle. Entering in, I am met by a downward set of stairs. I proceed, and step into the lower catacombs of the museum underneath the slowly vacating ballrooms. Above, echoes of dancing couples are forgotten as the muffled shuffle of tourist shoes wane towards closing hours. I am now at the bottom of the stairs, and my own feet are drawn through a prism of light that points the way to the prime exhibit of these floors.

"The History of Fashion".

Around the corner, a sea of dresses, frocks and garments, expand throughout the curving corridors before me.  Here in slow spiraled display, snapshots of society's changing timeline stand inanimately preserved behind spotless glass enclosures. I gaze in awe at the hand-embroidered textiles from centuries past, while bright cobalt, emerald, and varied crimson hues vie for attention on flamboyant figurines. Ideals of beauty, propriety, status, belief, reflected before me in the mode of dress. Some elegant, some opulent, some downright peculiar. "Where were our heads when we lauded wearing that?" I wonder as I look. In this ocean of silhouettes, each seems to say something distinct, a fleeting glimpse into the mind of the times. Free-flowing empire dresses of the 18th century laud the expanding philosophies of French philosopher Rousseau, and what did the shortening of English and American hems tell us about the necessities of wartime sacrifice? I chuckle to think that the length of a ladies hem could reveal the status of foreign policy. My eyes skim past a display of hats decked out with every possible pomp and pageantry. And there, just at the end of the showcase, I see another figure. And I realize I am not alone.

"Hello there," says the figure, clad in a pair of skinny suit pants and slim, tailored jacket. All inky black. "I am the curator, called Couture." His lips flatly spread out into a shallow crescent grin.
Puzzled, I falter over my words, trying to understand the presence of this other person.  He chuckles, "Ah, yes. It's a bit of an unusual title, but it's the one I prefer to go by in this house."

I glance around, trying to understand this peculiarity, when I notice just behind this suited curator, a curtain drawn around some lonely display. I ask the only question my befuddled brain can come up with.

"Do you know, what's behind that curtain?" The figure's smile stretches wider, and he lifts his hand toward the folds.

"Ah-ha! That, that is my most recent achievement." He opens the curtain, revealing two figures dressed almost exactly alike, with features that leave me uncomfortably guessing as to who, or what they were.

"I call it, Androgynous. The identity is in the ambiguity. Brilliant, wouldn't you agree?" Then I begin to understand.

"I can't even tell if they are men or women."

"Precisely." He opens the glass closure and steps inside, straightening the clothes on the mannequins. "This is something I have been working on for many decades, but it is finally coming into fruition. You may have already begun to see this visage on catwalks, sitcoms, and magazines." He steps back out of the encasing and turns towards me. "I have, for a long time now, convinced women that beauty is found in flaunting all that makes them feminine. I pedalled the belief (through a variety of mediums, both fashion and otherwise) that only by revealing everything they have to offer, could they be a true 'woman.' Strong, unapologetic, alluring."

Bristling, my mind thumbs back to the timelessly demure silhouettes I had seen just a few paces before."Sir," I check myself. Was that even the right word to use? "I have heard it said that the key to a woman's beauty is mystery, and discretion, the testament to her femininity. It is in concealing, she reveals her worth."

"Yes, yes of course. But I neglect to tell the world that part. Things are more...convenient, that way." He begins to walk in measured steps around the flanking displays. "You must relax! Getting offended is so passe nowadays." A chuckle slips through his lips. His well-coiffed hair glossily catching the angled lights above. "It's an enigma, and most people don't have time for enigmas anymore because they require time and effort. My product is instant gratification for the price of souls and destinies. But I have the wine of pleasure to provide! And when people are drunk with pleasure, it's easy to make them laugh at truth."

He carries on, "I have ingrained the notion that to conceal is to admit flaw. And don't forget that to wear shame is to deny your own self. Strutting in anything less than confidence is pathetic! Tisk, tisk. Well, wouldn't you know it, but people are tired of the no-holds-barred approach, and they actually want to guess, they want a riddle. Something unapologetically shocking, even unexplainable. So I have crafted a new 'mystery', twisted from the original one. Now the mystery is not, who is she, but what is it? People want to guess. They want to probe. They want to be taken by surprise. Look at these figures, and what do you see? A man? A woman? Who knows? But it doesn't matter, because I have already achieved my goal. Nullifying the ancients by strengthening a twisted cord woven through time. It's just 'fashion', but it has roots. That is what I use to keep the crowds guessing. And they will like it, until their interest dulls and the people are hungry for a fresh visage. Believe me, I know there is more than meets the eye, but the visible is a barometer of what lies underneath. That is my playground."

Now the figure stands between myself and the stairs I descended. He stretches out his fingers to a nearby light switch, and suddenly

Darkness.

I gasp, and the air I breathe in is cold and curt on the back of my throat. The sensation jolts me forward, and I am on the streets of Bath once again, with only the crescent moon above as my witness.

I begin walking, unsure of anything that has just occurred. My scattered thoughts and feelings try to align themselves like the stretch of lamps that light my way. I wonder. Does style encode history's happenings? Maybe that's a bit too far. But then again, perhaps fickle trends do betray prevailing shifts in our cultural psyche. As I move away from that fated spot, I cannot say for certain who or what I saw there. And yet, I know I am not the same. If there's one thing I can tell it's that fashion is not shy, and culture often stitches it's heart on sleeves.

A Time to Cede

We all have dreams we carry within us. Hopes, desires, ambitions that point to something other than the reality of our current experiences. Dreams spring from the hidden places within, reflecting the content of our thoughts and the state of our hearts. As in slumber. These dreams may steer us, shape us, and even define us. They are like seeds which carry, not a promise, but a hope. And who can tell whether these dreams carry life, or if they be empty? For while all dreams spring from the depths, some may be twisted from the intent of the Maker who first planted in us, from the earth, the dream of life itself. Weigh, not merely the content of your dreams, but the substance of them. Do I know where my dreams come from, and to whom they belong?

It is natural to hold my dreams tightly. Keeping them close inside my pockets, perhaps it is easy to suppose that proximity to myself is "protection." Here, I can run my fingers over them and admire their beauty as I please, but now what am I? A dragon with her gold-like hoard, enjoying an idle shimmer that benefits no one?  In this state, these seeds of dreams are nothing. Because in this state, they are devoid of life.

The only way a seed can come to life is if it dies. Sprouting can only come after burial. Seasons of apparent bareness clear the way for deeply rooted life that can endure storms with winsome vitality. I must cede my dream to the earth. My little seeds must be surrendered into the depths of that dark soil if they are to be anything more than pebles. In this darkness, my dreams are tested. The real, lasting, and good is separated from the fanciful, shallow, and vain. Upon that ancient alter, I surrender what is empty in my own hands to One Who Spoke all life into being. The Dream Giver, the Gardener who tends to and prunes my soul. In His loving hands those dreams can be nurtured and grown. But even the dreams that don't grow, the dreams that were empty from the start, they must still be handed over. Otherwise, those counterfeit seeds will continue to weigh down my pockets and make my steps heavy. If I do not cast aside all I hold dear, I can never experience the buoyancy, the freedom, of traveling this life lightly. And I will never know, which dreams were pebbles, and which were envoys of life from the start.