Watching him ceaselessly patrol the four walls of his brand new fish tank I got to thinking about what I find visually beautiful.
Some things are downright mundane - flowering cherry trees that I routinely pass on the way to work, my cat stretching after a nap, image of a taut naked female back (or backside, for that matter), calligraphy, delicately carved piece of Asian furniture. I suspect most people won't take issue or argue with me about the beauty potential of most of these.
Most would also agree that flowers are beautiful. You get a bouquet of flowers, gorgeous, alive with colors and life - it's a moment of pure beauty. But as soon as your hands leave it, it begins to die until a week or two later you pluck it out of the murky water, shuddering as your fingers close around the slimy stems before depositing them into the compost bin. Flowers are a gift of inevitable death.
I don't find death beautiful. Compelling and thought-provoking, yes, but not beautiful.
Life and its regenerative powers are beautiful.
Body art is beautiful - tattoos, piercings, scars... and my personal favorite, bruises.
I find bruises on my own skin to be almost unbearably beautiful. Unintentional bruises will get a passing glance, but it's the bruises filled with intent and brimming with memories that hold my gaze. Those are the ones that I stare at, mesmerized by the play of colors. These are the bruises that I'll brush against, accidentally on purpose, awakening the echo of their birth. They are the ones that I'll watch day after day, mourning the inevitable fading of black and purple into the palest of pinks until only a shadow of the memory remains.
Leave the flowers in the hothouse, bring me bruises... that's beauty in life.
No comments:
Post a Comment