The Uncomfortable Gaze #6
She might have been a councilwoman; she had a municipal look to her.
It has now been a span of many years, at least several, and I have forgotten everything about her from the head down. I think that she was large, but I have forgotten. I think that she was pale-skinned and mole-filled, but I have forgotten. I have forgotten where I saw her, who she was with, what her hands were doing, and what she wore. Above her all, extending past her actual limits like a gillie, camouflaging whatever there was below her neck, hung her head, to all appearances on top of nothing. I don’t even remember her face or neck or ears all that well, because it was her hair which made me notice her and keep her. It has been a canoptic sort of relationship; I have removed the extraneous material from her, and kept only what is necessary to write about her now, as a fleeting glimpse. I think that if she were to read these statements about herself, she would laugh and be worried.
Whatever else I lay over her and under her when I glanced at her, all those several years ago, her hair was cut into a winged bob, tipped like a sphinx and high-buzzed at the back, and its lower third had been dip-dyed the streaked crimson of fresh muscle or a changed bed, and in seeing that, and coveting it enough to remember it, to annihilate the rest of her, rather than camouflage her, I have used her. Her hair, devoid of the rest, has become a tool hung, ready to have roles ascribed to it, uses and totems and reductions and essences. I am ashamed of myself, and apologise to her here, for finding no use for her for so long that I have forgotten the rest of my Gaze, for keeping her bottled for so long without her knowledge. I apologise to all the others, as well, but she will stand as their symbol, even if in making her so, and in hearing such an apology, she would roll her eyes, vape and go straight back to her spreadsheets.