Friday, 20 June 2014

A Poisoned Hive of Uncanny-Valley Girls

If I had the money, I would have tried joining this post-punk resurrection tornado : a bleached and black leather, distressed denim army of middle-aged faces in glitzy jackets and skinny jeans. But since I didn't have the money, the next best thing was to see through the facade. Now that I frequent the grown-up, elegant shopping malls, where scary make-up ladies give me stern looks of disapproval, I'm right in the middle of a never-ending, perpetually self-repeating, graduation prom for big mall girls. Full of 300 dollar skull t-shirts and a kaleidoscope of handbags in the spotlight, and though I can window shop and walk through these glassy walls, I can't join the party. 

I decide that this, too, is a pretty vacant corporate con. Subtly invasive images of starved, enslaved women wearing almost nothing except jewellery that no real man can afford, float in and out of mind thick and fast, like a poisoned hive of uncanny-valley girls for women to look at, to feel represented by, and understood in their fragile sense of self, in their atrophy and imprisonment. 

So now every woman starts to need to date a prince, and to achieve this, has to go around life disguising herself as a princess. There are many princesses in the adverts. There is Snow White, there is Cinderella, there is Pockahontas; which one are you? Change your face, change your body, and buy a piece of beauty right from this store... oh, the phrases they tell these salespeople to say. I wonder what would happen if one day they stopped the machine? There will be nothing left in the soul but empty shells and bulky, undigested memories.  
 
When I was away wandering burnt landscapes, my angry feelings didn't change. Life slowly rolled forwards and its toxic-particle-laden tide sometimes buried me whole, the wind and the waves threw glassy sand in my face and the skin on my hands became a bit rougher. I never thought back much about our old fights that we used to have, how brittle and ashen they would leave me feeling. I didn't feel happy, but I carried that brittleness along, thinking, at least there is one person out there, who knows how I feel, because they did it. It took me so long to see at last that even you had no idea, and I am alone with the strange trees and the ashes within. I started building my own little house. Now that many years have passed and I once again look in your eyes, the will to fight back and to say how I have felt and where I've been, now that I am strong and you are old, has turned sour like the old soups from my kitchen, when i forgot to put them in the fridge.


One sentence from this blog was already published on:  http://www.indieberlin.de/art/blue-sugar-a-piece-of-writing-by-polly-trope.html

my first novel (similar style) on amazon : amzn.to/1pal5op

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