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Walking Art

She had a flower tattoo on her wrist; “What does that mean?” he asked her. “Absolutely nothing,” she said, “it’s just a flower.” ~C Joybell C

It’s early morning in the city, the lull before the masses ascend from the dank subway, roll in on bicycles, or exit the buses for the work day. Jackhammers beat in staccato waves for with the end of Winter comes construction season, the time to tear up the streets and the sidewalks to repair the damage wrought by freezing temperatures.

It is Spring.

The city has put out the umbrella tables for to sit and drink in the coolness of the early mornings, the idyllic weather before humidity climbs to unbearable levels and I sweat constantly, profusely. They have been out since 1st April but I have not had the opportunity to enjoy my morning time. The weather has not cooperated. Rain. Cold. Rain. Cold.

The trees have finally leafed, bushes begun their sprawl, flowers reach for the sun filtering down in the crevasses between the skyscrapers. They are white and pink and red and golden and yellow and maroon and cobalt and tangerine. They chooser to expose themselves as do the women who have shed their winter clothing. Trousers have become skirts. Furry boots have given way to open toed sandals with painted toenails. Dresses come out of the closet as do the short shorts exposing flesh inked in as many colors as the flowers.

The people have emerged from their cocoons, are blooming in color combinations mother nature may have dreamt but chose never to put into play. My eyes dance with delight at the variety. How sad it would be if everyone dressed like Mao! How much more delightful if the city dwellers draped themselves in the cornucopia of colors found in the sari’s worn in India. The impossible and contradictory arrangement of colors that achieve harmony. Beautiful butterflies flitting about the streets. No two are ever the same.

One change I would make would be to make them skimpier exposing the tattoos on legs arms shoulders. Exposed skin. Flesh as canvas. Women adorned in both the temporary feathers of their clothing and the permanent plumage of ink. Human being as art. Walking human art on the way to work.


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