My dad told me about a wedding he went to once. I think it was a secretary or something from his work. She was (by the sounds of things) a homely gal, and from a poor lot. Somehow they managed to throw together a ceremony at a small church in a small town a hair off the beaten track, if I recall correctly. It was a tiny one room deal and when things were wrapped up it was back to the bride's parents house for buffet-style finger sandwiches (probably catered by the local supermarket). The groom looked proud in his coke-bottle glasses.
Long story short, it's one of those stories that kind of made me sad for him, my father. Sad that he sees the world that way yet somehow he really meant his story as, essentially, a happy one. When he told it I could tell he intended a certain sort of charm to the whole thing, like it was sweet or something.. to me it came across as mostly melancholy.
A part of me can't understand what prompts him to record the details in such stark colours; the sad pastyness of the mustard in the ham and cheese finger rolls, the small yellow house that needed painting badly which people would wander off into in search of the bathroom, the pale plastic lawn chairs set about (sometimes cock-eyed with a leg dipping into a low spot otherwise unnoticable through the tall scraggly grass).. but sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself from the outside, and there I am, painting a drab picture myself;
It's overcast, and drizzling. A small woman sits on a bus bench, no more than 21, staring at her hands folded limply in her lap. Her brown hair, probably curly when she once left her house earlier in the morning, hangs wet over her ears and down around her shoulders forming a flat curve like a tiny little slip'n'slide.
.. see? The art isn't even that good; the brush strokes are basic and uninspired.
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the guys: philogynist jaime tony - the gals:raymi raspil
