People watching: Interpretations

He whistles at her from around the corner. At first, she ignores, but then he whistles again. She turns around, with a curious look. She is surprised. “Hey, how have you been?” He places an arm on her shoulder and starts to massage her neck. He utters something about wanting to know how she’s doing. She seems confused, unsure of how to interpret his touch. He tells her to give him a hug, and she does… almost unwillingly, mechanically, like an automatic uncontrolled response. Her eyes seem to ask, “What the hell?” But she hugs him. And he hugs her… and he sighs… and he holds on a few seconds too long. Then, he lets go. She looks to him for an explanation. None. He proceeds to walk her to class.

She is smiling… she is interpreting… she is creating all sorts of fantastic meanings to his every cleverly intentional yet conveniently vague actions.

Something Like a cookie

Oh no, sugar craving… I need something sweet… Now… I want it so bad I can taste it… It’s a cookie… Ooh, a chocolate cookie… Mmm, no, no, it’s something cold… Not frozen you can’t taste anything cold… Sitting out on the counter for 10 minutes after two hours in the freezer cold… Starting to soften and melt cold… Oh, and it’s warm… Gooey fresh out of the oven warm… would almost burn your tongue if it weren’t for the cold sweat, warm… But it’s crunchy too… And not the stuck between your teeth till it hurts crunchy… Not the you can’t hear anything but the sound of your chewing crunchy… The barely present soft and nutty kind… It’s the perfect spoonful… But instead, I chew a delectable zero calorie piece of gum.

September

The sharp and stinging tear comes unannounced as I hear the familiar numbers. 9.1.1. The woman’s voice sounds strange, foreign, like she obviously wasn’t there… like she has no business even talking about it. But it doesn’t matter, because I’m already gone… I’m already swept away by the flood of memories. The smell is in my nostrils, the dust is drying the back of my throat My vision is blurred as a classmate runs out crying… I hear the hushed words of those trying to console her. The sea of somber faces on the subway crashes down on me. The sadness prevents me from looking anyone in the eye. The sirens… the wailings… the days of words not spoken… they are all so deafening… I feel myself becoming numb…

I wasn’t THERE either. I never made it to the city that day… but it seems that I never left.

My big toe isn’t polished

Charles calls. He tells Wendy that he wants to talk to me… that he has some questions he wants to ask me. Uh-oh! Charles is no joke. He is not prone to take my crap. My vague thoughts and abstract ideas don’t exactly sway him. And, as I expect, after the niceties, the grilling begins.

“What are you doing, Danne? What is your vision for that? Are you passionate and persistent in your purpose? What do you hope to accomplish? What legacy would you like to leave behind?”

I… uh… but… I stumble my way through every question. I don’t have time. I don’t have clarity. I don’t have the resources. I don’t have the credentials.

But with every revealing answer, there’s a more convicting question. “What about this? Have you thought of the implications of that? How does this fit into the picture?

I… uh… but… I’m not prepared. I’m not sure I can. It’s all kind of scary. Well, I’m kind of scared. I don’t want to fail. Now the truth is out. My vulnerability is on the cold stone table. My cowardly sin is confessed. Yet it brings me no release.

“Danne, the first step is always the hardest, so how about we make a deal?” Now, there’s a question I can answer. “If you’re too scared to take that first step, girl, then at least lift your big toe.”

I laugh. I look down at my feet. What a goofy thing to say. I want to reply, but my toe isn’t polished. I want to show evidence to support my argument, I’m not ready. I want to foolishly defend my lack of action. But instead, I write… an unpolished, poorly constructed, pointless blog… but I have written, nonetheless… my toe is off the ground, nonetheless.

Thanks, Charles J

Five-hundred pounds and a room of my own…

At the end of her biographical novel, Nervous Condition, Tsitsi Dangarembga notes that a woman needs five hundred pounds and a room her own to write. This phrase has stuck with me for over ten years now, and the older I get, the more it rings true. I find that I cannot write anything with my heart unless it is heavy, weighed down and full of something that cannot be expressed. It’s been an emotional few months and I have a room of my own…

 **Never loved at All – A very long story**
“Old boyfriend, huh?” His words cut like a dull knife in the awkward silence.
I continue to stare out the window, at the sidewalk filled with passing strangers. “Worse”, I mumble, but my thoughts say so much more…
More like, an old one-sided relationship in which I’m completely infatuated but he doesn’t even realize it because I’m so good at hiding my feelings; or like an old I wish for once I lost all self-control and kissed him when he dared to stand so close.
If it had been an old boyfriend, running into him halfway across the country would be awkward at worst. There may be a brief silence, a sudden heartache, a feeling of anger. But at least there would be solace in thoughts of what was shared. Or, at best, there could be the realization of another reason why life is better without him. But, what have I got?
An old I still don’t know the feel of the touch of his hands… an old I wish I knew what it was like to hear him say, “I love you”… an old I’m such a great girl and he’s so glad we’re friends… an old everything about him still makes me feel like I’ll never be enough!
Where’s the solace in that?
A fat lonely raindrop splattered against the window pane, pulling me from my thoughts. I watch the trail of water slide down beyond my view, wishing I could join it. I sigh and finally reply, “Whoever said, ‘It was better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all’, was right”. I watch the silent trail for another moment, I whisper, “He’s an old never loved at all”.

**Signs of Little Significance – a very short intermission**
An open door
A hand on the small of your back
A kiss on the shoulder
A slow dance
A hand reached out in silence
A secret hug
A gentle squeeze
A moment of un-noticed silence
An eager smile
An un-ending conversation
An un-interrupted thought of happiness and joy

**Far Enough – a very sad ending**
There is a growing distance between us. I watch you across the divide and I want to yell, “Stay!
Far enough that you can hear my voice…
Far enough that I can see you smile…
Far enough that I can reach out and take your hand… and you can reach out and touch my back.
Far enough to know you’re close…
Far enough to say you’re far… enough…” But I don’t, I don’t say anything. I watch in silence across the growing divide as you go…
Far enough not to see me crying…
Far enough to know you’re far.