the pretty matters

This might be a long story. I don’t know. I haven’t written it yet. I might write it in little bursts.

But I’m just thinking that sometimes, the pretty matters. I try not to be as shallow as a puddle, but sometimes things stay with you. Visual things, I mean.

I remember what sunset and sunrise look like from the balcony of my room at Nusa Island, overlooking the water. I will never again live somewhere as beautiful. I’ll probably never be as miserable. But that’s a good thing. I loved the nubby strangeness of my grandmother’s missing finger. Lost in a meat slicing accident, there was something fascinating and distinctive about her missing finger. I looked at her hands for hours as a child. And there’s (usually) something amazing about seeing a child receive their first bike.

Apparently the feeling never wears off.

I was reading recently about Blakey’s “new” bike on Fyxomatosis, where said bike looks mighty pretty.

Course, Mister Fyxo can make just about anything look pretty. Even me.

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

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