Plucking

I own a pair of flapper pumps.Beige patent,buckled, with a kicky 20's heel.They are from the class of '09, not genuine at all:but they sublimely send me back to that dizzy,bedazzled time of bee-stung lips,be-curled hair,lariat necklaces and short,boyish silhouettes.They are for dancing-in 'til the sun rises. I should learn how to Charleston just for the extra thrill of giving them the authentic good-time they were made for.It would surely mean hell for my feet but the price is paltry that allows for such an instant,kinetic leap-back-in time.They are,you see, my Nancy Carroll shoes.I write those words as if that explains all,end of story,enough said:as if those words are an all-access pass into my imagination,with all corners and crannies of my psyche immediately illumined for your edification.

Stepping into my shoes,I become saucer-eyed,bow-mouthed, sassy.Was there ever a flapper with down-turned eyes, a generous-mouthed frown,surface sadness? I belong in a smoky nightclub,with nicotine puffs swirling heavily in the air. I have a holder:shiny and black, with inlaid mother-of-pearl. It sparkles in the darkness, a beacon, a tool in my kit of pertness and gaiety.There are dancing girls, on-stage and off, and I am among them. Where the performers leave off and the giddy patrons begin, is hard to tell.We are one laughing mass, of short skirts, rolled-up silk stockings and bobbed hair:brunettes,blondes, redheads.The men are in wilted evening wear,their perfect creases having worn off hours ago: it is 1 in the morning but feels like 4 in the afternoon. We are so young and un-tired that we could go on for hours,days,until next Tuesday,until the music stops.I am drinking an endless glass of Gin Rickeys and grabbing food off of passing trays.I lost the man I came with. I saw him dancing with a sweet-faced blonde hours ago.He is here somewhere, she is here somewhere,I am here, too, somewhere and everywhere.There is a woman wearing the same dress as I am.With so many people packed in this joint, it is really no wonder,and I don't care.It has been hours since I checked a mirror.I don't need to:everything has worn off in the heat of this place. We all feel so good that it cannot possibly matter.I'm flush with happiness and heat and dancing and drinking.We all are.I saw Rudy Vallee earlier, I really did. He wasn't performing,mind you:he was a customer, just like the rest of us,carrying a glass in his hand and laughing, watching the dancing girls, maybe watching me for a second,too.I really wish that I could slip out of my shoes.They are darling but my feet are killing me.Maybe they weren't meant for dancing,just for standing around and looking saucy and pretty in.Don't they know that we are too active for that?We don't sit at tables, not for long, not when there is so much else to do.Being still is for sleeping, not for living. Maybe I can take them off and put them in my pocket book.The girls dancing on the tables are barefoot.I'm becoming delirious with all of this activity. I need to have another drink but I'm bored with Gin Rickeys.I hear bottles of champagne popping.You would think that this is a celebration for the way that we are all acting. Maybe I will have a glass,anyway.Sometimes these parties seem like they are taken straight from the movies,with dancing and flirting and revelry,only in the movies they seem to always live like this.No one does anything real.I don't know how some of those girls pay their rent.They show them standing behind a counter for a few frames and, when they go home, it is always to someplace glorious.Then again, if I looked like Clara Bow I probably wouldn't have to worry about paying the piper, either.When this place shuts down, a bunch of us our going to stop by Flannagan's for breakfast.In a few hours, I will be eating scrambled eggs and toast,and my shoes will definitely be off then.I'll look a mess but it won't matter.I'll be tired,too,but I can sleep later. Tonight,after work, we're going to go see 'Honey' with Nancy Carroll--that is, Burt and me, if he doesn't leave me for that blonde.I love Nancy Carroll.Burt says that I look like her, only I can't sing.I wish I did but I think that he is just talking-sweet so that he can get places with me.I think I see Burt over there. I don't see the blonde with him. No, he's alone and he just winked at me. I think I had better go freshen up.

Any object or thought or word can take you anywhere that you want to go,if you are open enough to the experience.I spent an entire,and entirely delicious, lazy Saturday afternoon lost in reverie over a pair of shoes.I could call it wasted time,but it wasn't.I could call myself out on all of the productive things I could have been doing instead, but I won't.I accept that some days it is hard to remember what motivation is,let alone reach deep within and corral it into a meaningful purpose.Some days it vanishes from your vocabulary entirely, and you have to go look it up in a dictionary.When this mood enfolds me, I do not care that I am the sole mistress of my art, and without ferocious self-goading, ideas and words die unplucked.Art or no art, I could have done the dishes or swept the floor.Instead, I chose to indulge in an absurd and guilt-free flight of creativity, a minor symphony of the imagination.One of the major perks of being a writer,of any age, is that you must keep your day-dreaming and creative projection skills well-honed.So what if I created a madly-energetic,pulsing,and riotous Technicolor world from a pretty little pair of shoes?In letting go,however briefly,of my need to write--in allowing imagination to soar, an alternative creativity burst forth anyway.Giving yourself occasional freedom from outside demands,whatever the outcome, is beneficial.Heeding the call of a diverted mind is part of life's wayward journey: it is proof that living fully is about the inner as well as the outer aspect,and that joy and artistry is often to be found in accepting the moment,without demand.