To the lady on the train

Superscript: she did get in touch. I then told her a little too much about myself and she had second thoughts. That's a shame: I can't regret saying as much, because that's the whole, odd package, but I do feel sad that I'm mssing out on knowing more about a very interesting person.

Tonight I saw the most beautiful illustration, writhing down the back of a young woman who walked slightly ahead of me to the train. And, being impertinent, I told her how good it looked. She was very gracious and explained that she'd been under the needle for four hours, and that her back ached.

It got me thinking about performance and deocoration. There is so little opportunity to decorate ourselves and perform through our appearance in this drab, commuting capital - especially for men. It made me think of the seminar on Monday - about Leigh Bowery and the wonderful, outrageous stories he told with his body and his dress.

I wrote this poem an age ago - two summers, I think - when I'd had my arms adorned with henna (http://metro-poetry.blogspot.com/2007/02/hangin-on.html). And I had the same done this year at Glastonbury. It's as temporary as my tastes and nothing like as gorgeous as this woman's back. I envy her the decisiveness and taste.

I will write about her, when I know more about her.