Inspired Rants: musings on societal visions of beauty

Unlikely lady on a hot tin roof. Exposed to the elements. Half-clothed and pondering why the world has gone mad.

I’m not a commodity.

I don’t need to jut my hip out when a photo is taken. I don’t need to plump my lips, firm my ass.

Everyone’s a brand, a false sense of high-fashion. Beauty so generic it lacks anything actually beautiful at all.

It sits, it stares, it’s photographed bathed in the right light, with the right makeup blended, just so.Creating a shape that isn’t natural nor breathtaking. The body…contorted and twisted into statuesque poses to please the men that will most definitely consume, gaze and then forget this particular structure when the next comes along. Because there’s no conviction, attitude or personality behind such dullness. Only a team of 100, working to perfect abject perfection.

Perfection. What is meant by this word is something so trite and vile it ceases to exist within me anymore.

Conditioned masses still buy the pomp, circumstance, the judgment of the tender most sex. From the age of puberty(or just before)we’ve become products marketed to consumers who pay in high-dollar for the feeling they get pretending to be with the likes of a perfect ten. Wishing it silent, wishing it on a shelf, only to be used when the owner is feeling horny, lonely, needy.

High dollar consumers that spin the cycle into oblivion. Woman as product. Desired. Beauty manufactured into a boring routine of hair, nails, tan, wax, breast implant, face paint, and vanity. Bidding on a dream that will never come true. Bidding on mundane conversations, bidding on hours in front of a mirror. Bidding on insecurities that make women dress up like dolls in the first place, rather than using their intellect to entice and rapture. Sexuality comes from within and any man that tells you otherwise is simply a man who is fighting his innermost urge to fuck a woman who is just average because she can recite lines from the raunchiest stanza of Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Bukowski. And that intrigues him.

Mind not the cravings of a man conditioned to be a bitter shadow of what he could have become had he not dove head first into the scene. The scene is tragic. The scene is lame. The scene will get you no place, slowly. And while you burn on the spit of this pop-culture obsessed bonfire, those that have the smarts to run from those flames will live a life of certain perfection among like minds. Minds with substance. Bodies that carry them on down the line no matter their particular shapes, sizes. Faces that carry fine lines, emotion rather than fillers and facelifts.  Eyes that radiate desire for knowledge, love, travel and limitless joy. Not to be tramped out by some turd with a penchant for unnerving standards impossible to be met even by those who live in the cage of an internet age that is unrelenting.

The fast food of the modern world. Low stakes, low rewards, and nobody pushing the other for their best traits. Nobody challenging a paradigm that is single-handedly making us disconnected, cruel and superficial. The most boring set of idiots that have likely ever lived…the influencers, the models, the fame whores and the consumers that buy into this lot of garbage that’s been fed to them since birth. Weak, uncompromising bullshit that I could smell miles away. So glad to be of sound mind and spirit but I fear for humanity in this dark night of lust, selfish endeavor, and affairs of the half-hearted suitors, too self-absorbed to look love in the face and grasp it. For their screens, their gadgets are in the way.

Half-hearts professing half truths and spending half times yet expecting a great deal.

Half-ass. Fully disappointed. Uncomplimentary musings on this hot tin roof. My mind is prime for the taking if someone with a shred of non-complacency saunters by.

Stranger. In danger. And living a sordid life by the light of the crescent moon.

Thanking the heavens that I’ve got the sense to cling to my delicately flawed body as though it was the most delicious prime cut on the after-dinner menu. Thanking the heavens I place my keen wit before my supple bottom and dress my knowledge up in bindings of books, the lace of the Almighty. Songs of troubadours fill my breast, not the saline pap they’ve tried to push on me for decades.

So, dive fast through the shallow waters, anyone who thinks that the woman in me should be bought, sold, traded and discarded ad nauseam. You’re missing the point. And the point is just as keen as a freshly sharpened pencil in grade school.


Rant Inspired by: Poe Pinot Meunier.

One hell of a natural beauty made from a grape that is often blended with others to make it shine. It doesn’t need their help. It’s gorgeous on it’s on. It flirts just fine. And I’d take it home from the bar even after the lights came on. Brilliant pour, brilliant bottle.

-Holly Jones, Editor-OnTour Magazine