Everyone's a book, a story written into every wrinkle, engraved in every gesture, posture, significant glance.
Today I lay on the beach amidst the walking novels, reading into each life as I soaked in an ocean of sun, blue sky stretched above as I lay stretched beneath on the sand.
Florida is a good place to die, even with the high water table and your likelihood of being cremated, which may or may not bother you. Fifty is young here in the low season, age is skewed up, and up, and up, the precise opposite of current fashion/media culture. You see those who have settled into their bodies, accepting the truth of their shape and beauty, you also see the plastic-y trying of those who believes that there is an ideal out there that they must have, that they need, crave.
Me, I'm wearing my Sensational swimming suit feeling glamorous in my broad brimmed felt hat, glamour that I defined instead of the other way around. Glamour means false, a fake vision of a world that seems better than reality could be, a photoshopped image, and yet, it's the idea of dress up that resonates with me, to create a character out of physical stuff, clothes, accessories, hats, and be a woodland elf for the day, or a 40's fashionable lady(which only requires red lipstick, 007 in the red for anyone who wants to know a nice red for red haired folks) a character that is only pretend, make-believe, a glamour that will vanish with the dawn, or not, for those who sleep with their makeup on.