2 hours ago
The creases of shadow and light on my beige linen button-down create crinkles like #newpoppies in the garden. Linen is to lines as silk is to spheres as nylon is to polygons as wool is to clouds. Geometry concerns me this morning. // “Is this shirt wearable?” I ask my wife as we select our drapings for the day. The outer protective shell of ourselves. The garments that help to hide our naked bodies. The prêt-à-porter and haute couture communicating with our friends and colleagues, passers-by and neighbors, our social status, our class, and also their relative position to us, should they choose to pay attention to such stylings. And even if they don’t choose to, they can hardly help but judge along at least a few different dimensions: fit - both size and social situation; form - pleasing or jarring; function - providing the necessary aura of importance or aloofness depending on the perceived personal or professional goal for the occasion. Or, in this case, non-occasion. A contemporary office with mostly Midwestern people. I want to look assembled, while maintaining high levels of comfort, so as not to cause discomfort to those mostly Midwestern people. // My wife’s chosen shirt ruffles along the buttons in full black-peony #poppy fashion-a dark poppy dressed as a peony. The matte-black lack of color is precisely what permits such flourish without looking overly garish. Her naked body concealed and protected under furls of buttoned fabric. But not entirely concealed. The form of her is still evident as the cotton stretches tight along her sides. An aura of aristocratic elegance met with throwback Jordash black torn jeans. Comfortable and assembled. // “No, too wrinkled,” my wife replies with a compassionately sorry smile. // Meanwhile in the garden, the new poppies continue to unfold and stretch revealing more stages of only beauty.