Inspiration.jpg
On seeing the perfect picture one hungover morning
The headache woke me up before the alarm clock. The results of a mixture of Colombian beer and Korean soju late last night. Fifteen more minutes until I need to get up. Eyes closed. I don’t move as strange visions flash. I tell myself these are dreams but I can’t become lucid. Can’t control the visions. They simply fade as I try to keep hold of them.
At last classical music plays starting the autopilot routine of my morning. In the kitchen a glass of Tropicana and a bowl of Cheerios. I read books while eating breakfast now. The news only clouds thoughts and feeds my wrath. Mr. Norm MacDonald is stuck in Las Vegas. Unable to kill himself and facing mounting debt. He makes a plan to escape the city and cheat fate.
Dressed and ready for the day with half an hour to kill before work I go out for a walk. Out into the morning air that isn’t half as cold as I need it to be to fully wake me. The streets are becoming busy and walking the neighborhood I notice the same people I usually see. Mostly parents bringing kids to daycare and school.
Back home the computer boots while I grind the beans to make a cup of coffee.
When working from home it’s important to keep a good pace. I answer some emails. Easy stuff that confirms I am in fact online and working. Only then do I open Twitter and see something that wakes me up in a different way.
There in stark black and white is an image of pure beauty. A portal opens in my mind and my heart freezes. I am a teenager again in thrall of forbidden beauty. A sight so arresting to my rational mind that it bears investigation.
It’s not the nudity but the artistry. These women look happy. The Playboy centerfold always looks happy. She is a woman who has received the recognition that she is the pinnacle of femininity. There once was a world where these images mattered beyond the price they could be sold for. There were well worn Playboys, hidden from view, totems. To be read and admired not in any moment but in stolen moments. In the time alone in the house after school and before anyone else was home. The pages smelling sweat from cologne advertisements and creased in familiar places.
Strange that I should remember this now. Stranger still that I recall the emotions and not the images. Perhaps the meaning image would be lost on me. But Ms. Vaugn is generous and her words. Confirming that there still is the potential for great love in this world.