LIFE ON THE FRINGE

What comes to mind when I see fringe is the desert. Life on the fringe. Cowboys and Indians. Tumbleweeds and ghost towns. Scenes from Alejandro Jodorowsky’s surreal play out in my head. Maybe it’s fringes naturally frayed state that exudes the rugged life of a vagabond. I grab my iPod, turn up the Townes Van Zandt and take a head trip down the dusty highway. Its state of tranquility and hush provides a much-needed oasis. A breath of freedom.

The desert, for me, has always born a melancholic, bittersweet spirit. Perhaps it’s the deserts inherent loneliness, coupled by its vast holiness. It’s dry and scorching during the day. The endless nights are punctured by the howl of stars in open sky and strange silhouettes on dark land. Spiny cacti prickling in the mid-day haze surrender their flowers to the coolness.

Fringe, hanging in tendrils when still, strips of fabric separated from one another, is altered by the slightest movement. A little twirl. An inspired whirl. A new world. Like the desert after a rare cool rainfall moistens the parched brown sand, coming alive in a dance.

Ramble on.

‪-Gina DellaGioia

August 2012