How to Imitate Well

Photo by Disha Sheta on Pexels.com

We all imitate. There’s not a drop of originality in any of our bones. Question is: do we choose the things we imitate, or do we do it unconsciously. Frighteningly (or not): whichever way we go will ultimately dictate the type of person we will become: a master, or a slave.

We are all immersed in a sea of experience. Our senses are always alive to sensory impressions, even when we’re asleep and, some say, even when we are in a coma. We cannot help but be affected by these impressions in some way or another. The people we admired as children, whether pop-stars or our parents, influenced the style of dress and mannerisms we adopted as we grew. It’s interesting to sit on a bench on a high-street and try to figure out who influenced the people passing by to dress and walk like they do. Probably you’ll be wrong. Possibly they don’t even know themselves. But the imitators and there imitations will be there. It’s even more interesting to do the same thing to yourself.

Look at what you’re wearing on your legs right now. Ask yourself why you chose that particular garment. I wear Levis because I liked Westerns as a kid and that’s what the cowboys wore. Maybe not that particular brand, but certainly blue jeans. Or perhaps they didn’t; but that’s how I remember it. I’m still playing a childhood game of Cowboys and Indians. Or maybe it’s not that at all. My dad wears jeans and pretty-much always has. So it’s even likelier that I picked up the habit from him (and maybe he got it from the movies. It’s a bit of idol-worship I guess. Then there are the songs: ‘I put on my jeans and I feel alright’, ‘Forever in Blue Jeans’ and ‘Blue Jean, I just met me a girl named Blue Jean’. And look at the people singing those songs. And look at Jimmy Dean when you get a moment. I know; it’s so obvious, right?

Now raise your eyes to the top half of your body and do the same self-assessment. Where did you get that top? Why did you buy it? And what made you put in on today of all days? I know exactly why I wear these form-fitting t-shirts. I know why I buy them in small when I’m a medium. I can trace my thoughts back to a day by the beach on a Caribbean island when my bag was stolen whilst I was in the water so that, when I got out, I had to borrow the shirt of a friend who, before me, had penchant for tight fitting clothing. I didn’t want to give him that shirt back at the end of the day because of how good I feel it looked on me and since then I’ve been buying the same style and size of shirt over and over again.

And that’s just clothing. Everything else is an imitation too: the volume at which you speak, where you get your books, what kind of alcohol (or not) you prefer, who you like to spend time with, what kind of movies you will pay money for (and what kinds you watch when they roll around on TV), how you walk, who you give the time of day to, and a myriad of other things that you say, do and think – all imitations of what came before.

If you want to imitate well, then you can. You just have to turn it into a conscious process so that you yourself are the one making up your own mind. You just have to become more self aware so that, in the same way that you looked at your leggings and top, you do the same for every important aspect of your life. If you want to live like Madonna (the original one) and yet find yourself drawn to Machiavelli then it’s time to do a drains up.

Start with the little things and you’ll find that, with practice, that you’ll get the hang of changing them quickly enough. Then, by the time you get to the big things, you’ve got a routine in place to handle them. That and remember to have fun. Change is inevitable, and is largely outside your control; but enjoying that change is well within your remit. You just have to make your mind up how to be. You can do it.

And that’s all we have time for now, because lunch has arrived.
Yeah, not, unfortunately, literally.
I have to go make it.
Enjoy.

Cherry Girl

cherryShe was a cherry. Not literally. She didn’t hang around bowls, nor did she have a stone in her belly. I mean that she was sweet, cute and rounded in all the right places.

Lots of makeup on her face so she could have been darkly red underneath it all. But I doubt. More like the colour of her hands I would guess. She could have gone without the slap and still have been as cute as fruity pie.

She’d made her hair the colour of straw, but you could see from her eyebrows, and the bare glimmer of her roots, that it was easily black. Naturally, her birthday suit would have shown this, but not in the middle of the public library. That wouldn’t have been appropriate. Not at all.

It was when she turned away that her shape under those blue, blue jeans gave her away as being as luscious as a cherry (or two) and her top being the colour of cerise should give you the clue you need to guess that from the front – she was just as suggestive of the previous assertion regarding the shape she had assumed on reaching a certain age at which she bloomed like a blossom on a certain tree.

Perfectly proportioned was this cherry girl. Properly made up in the style of a juicy fruit who would shine in any circumstance – either on your arm or in the collection of the finest connoisseur of sweet delights. She was fine and tasty; smart and sweet; bright and shiny – such a treat. She could make the casual observer wax lyrical about her charms, even after a day of tiresome toil or burdensome botherments. She was there and she was good and she was ripe for the picking.

She was five foot two and it makes me wonder how would she choose her mate. Would she think of her children and choose one who stood over six foot so that perhaps they would be half way in-between? Or would she think more of the convenience of not getting a crick in her neck every time she needed to steal a kiss? Steps would be fine for when she wanted to be on a par, but wouldn’t it be better to marry someone who is five foot four? I wonder these kinds of things as I go through life and I wonder why I wonder about them too. Is it any wonder that I’m twice as strange as I am true?