(no subject)
At the bus stop a young man sauntered by, long dark hair cut straight across his back. He wore long black coat, still creased and hung with shiny silver hardware. Tall black leather boots encased his shins, the tops of the boots spilling over with jeans of a dye that hasn't been seen since the early eighties. His step was bouncy, a spring in the toes, his arms held somewhat akimbo, almost as if he needed them slightly awry to balance him in the tall boots. The effect was rather like a Golden Retriever dressed for Halloween.
And I thought of my days in long black coats and tall black boots. Walking with a menacing drama always came easily to me, and I refined it by watching J. If you are going to attempt to broadcast your otherness to the world, then for heaven's sake, you must do it with panache.
You must let your heels sink into the earth with force and purpose, while your torso stays erect and mostly still. A purposeful stride that hints at danger, a bit of sway of the hips to suggest delight. Any movement from the upper body must be fluid, graceful, and dangerous looking. You must tilt your chin ever so slightly down and regard your surroundings with a piercing glower that sees everything. Movements of the neck and head must be sinuously swift, a snap, or painfully slow and deliberate. You must capture the attention of everyone who passes you, and you must hold that attention until you decide they can look away. You must be alien, desirable, frightening, intriguing, a whiff of sweet poison in the air. You should be able to part crowds and stop traffic merely from the way you move.
I always could.
And then I turned my head and chuckled. In my younger days, indeed. Who was I to pass judgement on shiny buckles, coats in the summer, and perfectly faded band tshirts (metal, of course). A corporate drone, shackled in a cubicle, who commands the attention of a conference room, whose otherness is likened to a movie star - elusive, icy, distant when I walk past the copier.
And I thought of my days in long black coats and tall black boots. Walking with a menacing drama always came easily to me, and I refined it by watching J. If you are going to attempt to broadcast your otherness to the world, then for heaven's sake, you must do it with panache.
You must let your heels sink into the earth with force and purpose, while your torso stays erect and mostly still. A purposeful stride that hints at danger, a bit of sway of the hips to suggest delight. Any movement from the upper body must be fluid, graceful, and dangerous looking. You must tilt your chin ever so slightly down and regard your surroundings with a piercing glower that sees everything. Movements of the neck and head must be sinuously swift, a snap, or painfully slow and deliberate. You must capture the attention of everyone who passes you, and you must hold that attention until you decide they can look away. You must be alien, desirable, frightening, intriguing, a whiff of sweet poison in the air. You should be able to part crowds and stop traffic merely from the way you move.
I always could.
And then I turned my head and chuckled. In my younger days, indeed. Who was I to pass judgement on shiny buckles, coats in the summer, and perfectly faded band tshirts (metal, of course). A corporate drone, shackled in a cubicle, who commands the attention of a conference room, whose otherness is likened to a movie star - elusive, icy, distant when I walk past the copier.