I’ve always had this side of myself, that has never fit with the reality of what my modern life has encompassed, and actually is, in all it’s other areas.
Elegance is a deception.
It’s as if my soul, my essence is from another era.
I’m always surprised when I look in the mirror.
I expect to see someone, who is taller, eminently, elegantly more graceful and classic.
My real body is round, my face placid, benign, like someone”s gray-haired grandma.
Old out-molded things facinate me.
I cherish a real ink pin with a gold nib –
The way it fits in my hand, the weight, the ink flowing from the tip across the pages.
It’s a thrill to fill it up from a bottle of deep rich color –
Ebony, emerald, sapphire, bronze sepia from octopus, sea-salty scented.
I love the luxury of old fashioned, engraved, monogramed stationary,
Creamy pages of paper with deckled edges,
Heavier weighted for the flexible, sharp nib of the pen.
Everyday, I take the pleasure of writing in my journal –
The accounts, lists, obsevations, feelings.
The details of thought that have occurred to me,
My dreams of the night before, and even insights.
In my personal quarters,
When I buy curtains, they are ivory, antique raw silk,
Classic, stately and tasteful.
The comfortor on my bed is cream and champagne gold.
A tone on tone, ecru Grecian lamp stands
On the lovely hand-rubbed, elderly wooden chest next to my bed.
In a painting that dominates the room,
A baroque, rubenesque, shir-clad
Europa steps out of the past to tame the bull, Zeus.
Etchings hang on the walls, as antique mirrors reflect
The candlelight softened, butternut patina of my old furniture.
Most of my years,
I still pause each time I touch the bedroom’s doornob.
I expext to catch a whiff of exotic perfume, as I open the door.
The room lit with candlelight,
Softly, lighting someone waiting for me on the other side….
There usually is someone anticipating my approach,
But it’s my much pampered cat
Curled up on the bed cushions.