I am writing a story:
Looking back upon those years, I think what bothers me most is my inability to decide whether the attribute that defined them was intended to be a blessing or a curse. It may have been the greatest and most generous gift ever bestowed upon my meek shoulders, or conversely, the most maliciously and spitefully cast burden they have ever had to bear. And now, a decade later, I remain at a complete loss when it comes to determining which.
Remembering the woman to whom the origins of that blessing/curse can be traced fails to eradicate any of the unsettling ambiguity of its nature. I wish, now, that I could recall the conversation I'd written off as meaninglesss banter at the bar- where had she said she came from? North or south, and when she had said it, had she meant to reference the plane I'd so innocently assumed, the plane upon which we'd happened to meet? Or somewhere...else, transcendent, beyond, unknown?
I wish I could remember the color of her eyes, the inches of her height, the shape of her breasts- anything, anything at all, besides a disturbingly- but beautiful nonetheless; in fact if anything, only the more attractive for its strangeness...the word enchanting comes to mind, and in retrospect, I wonder how literally it might be applied- disarming smile, and her voice. There aren't particular words I recall, but just this certain lilting quality- like an ocean, carrying you far, far away, a lullaby sweetly sung under her breath...or was it a hex, hypnotically hummed? And how, how is it possible, that I, the recipient of the resultant beauty/beast, am unable to name its nature? What I can say is that the moment that peculiar melody entered my ears, and thus, its effect entered my life, I became a man defined by sensations the existence of which I had never, ever even begun to contemplate.
If I had registered a feeling of compassion or malice in that moment, although I would not have understood it, I would have eventually known what I needed to- that is, the nature of Her and the nature of what she'd instilled in me- but I felt neither. Instead, I was overcome only by an intense sense of relief. At the song's completion, she ran awkwardly/gracefully all at once, out the little door of my apartment, her purple designer purse flapping behind her elbow as if it bore some treasure- some identification, perhaps?- that, burdensome as it might be, simply could not be left behind. And that, a hand clinging to a flailing purple purse flying out my door, three and a half hours after I had first laid eyes upon the woman to whose arm it belonged, was the last I ever saw of her. As you might imagine, I thought it strange that such a moment would inspire relief. As the hand, the purse- as She- disappeared further and further into the night, or at least, out of my life, the relief faded too, pushed out by more appropriate and familiar seeming feelings- confusion, shock, even anger.
What I wonder, looking back upon that night in light of what I know about it now, is who that relief belonged to. Or perhaps a better way to pose the question: within whom had it originated? For that is what I would learn, how I had changed that night, the skill I had picked up that would shape me, make me, become me. From the moment I had heard Her song, the origin of an emotion ceased to define the limits of its affect. That is to say, whether the feeling began as mine, Hers, his, hers, yours- if it existed in my immediate vicinity, it was mine too.
Of course I didn't understand this immediately. I went to sleep that night confused and mildly bewildered, but prepared to move on and meet one more day in life as I knew it, come the sound of my alarm. For at least a little while, it seemed that this fate, mundane as it might seem, was in fact the one reserved for me, and I was okay with that, even pleased by it at times. I don't recall anything strange about that night or the next morning- some dreams, I guess, though nothing extraordinary, whole wheat toast, perhaps slightly burnt- but I liked it that way- apricot jam, a glass of milk to wash down a multivitamin, shirt, pants, tie, comb through the hair, shoes and jacket on, bag grabbed off the chair by the door and on my way.
The sidewalk was relatively empty, and as it turns out, most people on the sidewalk in Brooklyn at 7:15 in the morning feel something simliar- hurry, here we go anxious, brr-chilly!, let's go, let's go!- and because I didn't yet realize what had happened, and therefore wasn't yet attuned to the subtleties that had begun flowing into the amalgamated river of emotions that constantly coursed through me, I didn't notice anything- until I got into the subway station.
Looking back upon those years, I think what bothers me most is my inability to decide whether the attribute that defined them was intended to be a blessing or a curse. It may have been the greatest and most generous gift ever bestowed upon my meek shoulders, or conversely, the most maliciously and spitefully cast burden they have ever had to bear. And now, a decade later, I remain at a complete loss when it comes to determining which.
Remembering the woman to whom the origins of that blessing/curse can be traced fails to eradicate any of the unsettling ambiguity of its nature. I wish, now, that I could recall the conversation I'd written off as meaninglesss banter at the bar- where had she said she came from? North or south, and when she had said it, had she meant to reference the plane I'd so innocently assumed, the plane upon which we'd happened to meet? Or somewhere...else, transcendent, beyond, unknown?
I wish I could remember the color of her eyes, the inches of her height, the shape of her breasts- anything, anything at all, besides a disturbingly- but beautiful nonetheless; in fact if anything, only the more attractive for its strangeness...the word enchanting comes to mind, and in retrospect, I wonder how literally it might be applied- disarming smile, and her voice. There aren't particular words I recall, but just this certain lilting quality- like an ocean, carrying you far, far away, a lullaby sweetly sung under her breath...or was it a hex, hypnotically hummed? And how, how is it possible, that I, the recipient of the resultant beauty/beast, am unable to name its nature? What I can say is that the moment that peculiar melody entered my ears, and thus, its effect entered my life, I became a man defined by sensations the existence of which I had never, ever even begun to contemplate.
If I had registered a feeling of compassion or malice in that moment, although I would not have understood it, I would have eventually known what I needed to- that is, the nature of Her and the nature of what she'd instilled in me- but I felt neither. Instead, I was overcome only by an intense sense of relief. At the song's completion, she ran awkwardly/gracefully all at once, out the little door of my apartment, her purple designer purse flapping behind her elbow as if it bore some treasure- some identification, perhaps?- that, burdensome as it might be, simply could not be left behind. And that, a hand clinging to a flailing purple purse flying out my door, three and a half hours after I had first laid eyes upon the woman to whose arm it belonged, was the last I ever saw of her. As you might imagine, I thought it strange that such a moment would inspire relief. As the hand, the purse- as She- disappeared further and further into the night, or at least, out of my life, the relief faded too, pushed out by more appropriate and familiar seeming feelings- confusion, shock, even anger.
What I wonder, looking back upon that night in light of what I know about it now, is who that relief belonged to. Or perhaps a better way to pose the question: within whom had it originated? For that is what I would learn, how I had changed that night, the skill I had picked up that would shape me, make me, become me. From the moment I had heard Her song, the origin of an emotion ceased to define the limits of its affect. That is to say, whether the feeling began as mine, Hers, his, hers, yours- if it existed in my immediate vicinity, it was mine too.
Of course I didn't understand this immediately. I went to sleep that night confused and mildly bewildered, but prepared to move on and meet one more day in life as I knew it, come the sound of my alarm. For at least a little while, it seemed that this fate, mundane as it might seem, was in fact the one reserved for me, and I was okay with that, even pleased by it at times. I don't recall anything strange about that night or the next morning- some dreams, I guess, though nothing extraordinary, whole wheat toast, perhaps slightly burnt- but I liked it that way- apricot jam, a glass of milk to wash down a multivitamin, shirt, pants, tie, comb through the hair, shoes and jacket on, bag grabbed off the chair by the door and on my way.
The sidewalk was relatively empty, and as it turns out, most people on the sidewalk in Brooklyn at 7:15 in the morning feel something simliar- hurry, here we go anxious, brr-chilly!, let's go, let's go!- and because I didn't yet realize what had happened, and therefore wasn't yet attuned to the subtleties that had begun flowing into the amalgamated river of emotions that constantly coursed through me, I didn't notice anything- until I got into the subway station.
posted by bella.calamitas at 11:02 AM
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