An Edison bulbs hangs loosely over my head. I am seated at table four in a rustic coffee day shop. The tables don’t have numbers, but this seems like the fourth cup of cold brew. My fourth time here. The backdrop of the shop houses an updated screen. But in paradox, on it, flashes silent pictures of a black and white era. Soldiers clad in bravery, foots In the threshold of death. Modern eclectic music bridges the gap overhead.
It seems we are living in times of extreme technological advancement, with a luscious longing for the vintage. But the vintage we crave is one of design, culture, sans the strings attached of less accessibility to modernity. It’s a laughing contradiction to any old timer who has been Born before the clock struck apple-o-clock, before we became Buried in devices, where we type articles, heralding back To times of yore. The buildings sport minimalist design, Modern colors, brazen creatives nourished by the street. And on the other side of the avenue, is a gallery of my grandmother’s Clothes. Some teens have claimed they are in vogue.
It seems I’m a bird caught above a rooftop, dangling low Over a century that spins nonchalantly into great oblivion And simultaneous over-stimulation. A chasm between the Long-ago slow flow of telegram life, and a single phone Attached to the wall (in which you would have to carry until The cord can no more reach) to the room where no one Would hear your conversation—— And the buzz of sensory invention, catapulting our heads To a heady rush of extravagance, turned to nothingness In its wake.
I saw a thrift shop and held a red linen dress between my Fingers. I thought of a young Zelda Fitzgerald, caught in The traps of her marriage, while her soul budded with A creativity that couldn’t be published fully. Time was Softer than, and in the hum of a more primal world, we Were deficient. But I laugh at the irony of a 21st century Woman, blazed with a feminine mission in a world of advancement, and on her finger is a 1930’s ring emblazoned With some woman’s name. She wears this proudly. She will stock the shelves of her modern refrigerator With an old wooden carton. The basil smells fresh. She will oscillate elegantly on the border of a vintage Soul with a modern world.