She rubs the icon of memory…

“Today’s icons are cliches on stilts,” she said.  Tumble down stilts, fall into the sand of ancient icons crumbling.   Icons where Hercules meets Bob Dylan and nobody notices Justin Beiber’s stilts headed out to sea.  We change what we worship.  The young rebel worship–oh, here’s James Dean, another forgotten icon–and we do not notice icons of elders.

She stared beyond the range of fireflies, peering into the distance.  There was not an icon in sight.  Just down the beach, she sights a logo on a butt, sewn in, not a tattoo, and she thinks to avoid icons in the future.  Iconic to think of the icon as a pigeon hole to contemplate the meaning of life.  Instead, dash out the back door, run down an alley of discarded logos, jump on a bus of bannered icons, in search of herself, of her latest passion.

To be beyond icons makes her a rebel, turning away from Lady Gaga as Michael Jackson’s train whistles off into eternity.  Rebel against the current status quo, iconography is only blissful to the creator, the maker, the artist within.  She sighs.  Let her not make icons for all the while she thinks she is an original.  Even Edison wasn’t the only one making the same discoveries.  He just got all the press.

Lean into originality, create beyond borders, find something, anything new, that which is not pre-packaged and shrink wrapped, nor embedded with rat repelling chemicals.  Find it, she thinks as she lets her eyes rummage the bins at Goodwill for a well worn dress.  What she wears is her daily chance to dress up or dress down, to express herself.

Bound in flesh, heart beating to a new rhythm of celebration, she smiles to the sunset.  Walk on stilts.