The older I become, the surer I am of hearing a ticking clock. It began not long ago, but somewhere in my brain I grew uneasy. The sound had become apparent where once it was subliminal.
Digging on Elvis kissing a teenager, of being kissed by a teenager, and the sensuality of the moment. The girl's age is probably meaningless. It's a bet she isn't legal. But Elvis is just a kid here too, a legal man by definition of the ticking clock. In fact, the configuration of the girls and Elvis resembles a clock face.
I've been smitten by the image, the adoration of even time itself to Elvis' power. He had no idea of a ticking clock, an ending to end even the might of his sexual force. That kissing girl, what became of her? What did time do to her? Is she alive now?
I can hear the trod of time, light as heels worn by a very precise and very small woman walking through an airport terminal in 1965. Time stood still for her, enraptured by her movements and sway. Time is self-reflection, after all. Why would it not be fascinated with itself, with its own casual sensuality, its carnal glance in every reflective surface?
No comments:
Post a Comment