Blowing Kisses to My Archetypes
Let’s get something straight. I do wear fruit on my head every single day, and except for the occasional tickle of a grape on my ear or a rotting banana, I’m good to go.
So, rolling around essences in my head brought me to archetypes. (Hey, stop squirming. Pay attention!) You know, archetypes. Idealized personas to be emulated. Like Greek gods and fictional characters and Hollywood stars when stars were stars.
For me, archetypes usually have qualities that I need to absorb (think really good paper towel).
My first kiss flies to Carmen Miranda, God rest her soul, that glamorous spitfire from the 1940s. Who wouldn’t want to be like her? Everywhere she went people smiled. What’s not to smile at when a woman walks up with fruit on her head?
My second kiss sails to an actual person who has the misfortune of being an archetype for me. I’m sure it sucks to be someone’s archetype, so I won’t name the poor soul, but he has risen to archetypal status for being profoundly creative and free in his youth. Picture a guy at the top of a hill. Somersaulting backwards. Picture an insightful lyricist and guitar player who lost track of himself sometimes. (OK, drugs may have been involved. I don't really know.) I have imbued him in his youth with special powers and remain in his sway.
Not all archetypes hold their own through life. So here’s my love letter to archetype number two.
Dear Beloved Archetype,
Back in the day, you were an amazing man (although a little femmy...but sexy as all bejeebers). Sensuous and free. It’s too bad you became cracked, lost and depressed, and your fear of failure paralyzed your tremendous unbounded creativity. Sorry you’ve went underground, hiding and silent. It pisses me off that someone with so much talent isn't sharing it.