Geminis (or, at least this one) don’t care
if someone critiques them as a social butterfly. As if that distinction is
a bad thing. And when we’re in a good mood, we (I) like a visually brilliant
display. (Starry Night, anyone?)
Conspicuous success? I have yet to know what that feels like. I wouldn’t mind a taste of it. I’d even smile, or smirk, at the expected trolling that comes with it. (And there’re always trolls that want to spoil the enjoyment—what can you expect from someone mentally living under a bridge?)
Having thought about it, I do have several definitions of my own ‘plumage’. A former employer was influenced to color-code my unit’s section with laminated I.D. cards of hot-pink. It’s my primary clothing color, my conspicuous display that has yet to be copied.
And, for those that go the clichéd route of gifting an adolescent with a drum set, hastening the irritation of the parent? Please. This spoiling auntie can achieve minimum exasperation from my siblings with a set of birthday’d bongos, instead. No assembly required, easily portable, and certainly uncommon.
I’ve never understood why an artist’s collection grows valuable (or, more valuable) after death, other than the eye-rolling obviousness of never being able to produce more work. "That’s it! That’s all there will ever be!" anyone would tell you. Does that mean an infinite collection is less rare? Does an assembly line of painted canvases mean lesser value?
Meanwhile, living, breathing artists manifest the ‘coolly eccentric’ character that others who attend the opening of an envelope would love to boast about 'being at their table'. (Braggadocios have always made me cringe)
Conspicuous success? I have yet to know what that feels like. I wouldn’t mind a taste of it. I’d even smile, or smirk, at the expected trolling that comes with it. (And there’re always trolls that want to spoil the enjoyment—what can you expect from someone mentally living under a bridge?)
Having thought about it, I do have several definitions of my own ‘plumage’. A former employer was influenced to color-code my unit’s section with laminated I.D. cards of hot-pink. It’s my primary clothing color, my conspicuous display that has yet to be copied.
And, for those that go the clichéd route of gifting an adolescent with a drum set, hastening the irritation of the parent? Please. This spoiling auntie can achieve minimum exasperation from my siblings with a set of birthday’d bongos, instead. No assembly required, easily portable, and certainly uncommon.
I’ve never understood why an artist’s collection grows valuable (or, more valuable) after death, other than the eye-rolling obviousness of never being able to produce more work. "That’s it! That’s all there will ever be!" anyone would tell you. Does that mean an infinite collection is less rare? Does an assembly line of painted canvases mean lesser value?
Meanwhile, living, breathing artists manifest the ‘coolly eccentric’ character that others who attend the opening of an envelope would love to boast about 'being at their table'. (Braggadocios have always made me cringe)
Still, occasional exhibitionism can
be all in fun. I just wouldn’t want it very often. I know few Geminis that
would. Being a spectacle all the time would be exhausting. Not to mention we also
bore easily.
To quote a scene from Aaron Sorkin’s writing in ‘The West Wing’:
"I could've countered that, but I had already moved on to other things in my head."
To quote a scene from Aaron Sorkin’s writing in ‘The West Wing’:
"I could've countered that, but I had already moved on to other things in my head."
