Showing posts with label
postcards of people i don't know.
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Showing posts with label
postcards of people i don't know.
Show all posts
Glass
He talked. He paused like he was looking for a word. I talked. He looked at me. I stopped talking and he talked again. I talked over him and finished his sentence the way I thought it would be finished. He stopped talking. As I talked, I lifted my hand. I laughed. He gave me a serious look. He talked. I talked. We talked over each other for some time in a casual way. We both seemed tired and stopped. I looked at the table. I poured a glass of fizzy water. The bubbles were so loud that we looked at the glass at exactly the same time and looked away as if reminded that looking at glass was blinding.
A Person I Talked to Once and Still Think About
He held the book five inches from my face. "I liked it for many reasons," he said. "The smell of it being one." I lowered my head and smelled it careful not to make a sniffing sound in the quiet store.
Thinking I'll throw it out, I take it from a small stack on the floor from time to time. I end up smelling it instead. Some days I think it smells like leather. Other days I could swear it smells like mixed nuts.
Collection
Like some people collect art objects or pearl necklaces, I collect gestures. The larger my set of gestures, the more interactions I can have because I will be able to handle a larger set of possible circumstances. Whereas once I could only handle a few and so spent so much time alone. Throwing both arms up at the same time, I just learned, makes people look in my direction, and it also makes me look like I am fun to be with. I can get people around me, but I don't know how to keep them there for weeks. Some setbacks: I will never master all possible gestures; when a gesture fails to produce the desired effect I don't know where to place blame; like an accessory I might also one day be out of style.
Persistent Good Moods
Through golf carts good moods are borne. More than any other small vehicle—how is the breeze always just right—a golf cart asserts itself as a deliverer from a life not-always-just-pure-fun. These strong good moods make even a fall from a golf cart feel unlike a fall. Once I did fall, and because everyone was distracted by his or her good mood, the cart didn’t stop right away. Of course, my head didn’t crack. A cracked head is incongruous with the good moods agreed to in silence by all involved in a golf cart tour. The cart stopped and whirred backwards. My brother, who is older, looked at me like I was a dropped pencil. I lifted my head and looked at the pink-and-white striped canopy over my brother's head. I thought I probably was not very hurt. My brother often made me think I was not as hurt as I thought I was. Later, this hurt me. I think. I got back in and we motored away between green hills.
Self Possession
My mother often dressed me as a boy.
Two-Pound Lobster
At some point, as a child, I might have eaten in a restaurant like this. We, my family and I, are lovers of lobster. My father ignores waiters, unless they are women, and thinks travel to the sea is healthful. He prefers to be alone but would not eat in an empty restaurant unless he was very hungry. Lobsters were brought out one hour late once, at a seaside restaurant and my father said, "You know what you can do with your lobsters?" and walked out, even though he was very hungry. We were always subject to his bad temper. Inevitably my father embarrassed us in restaurants. Both of my parents drink wine regularly and always encouraged me and my brother, as kids, to drink wine. Once, from a restaurant my mother called me. "I'm too drunk to drive home. I stopped and am now sitting at Mezzaluna. Will you talk to me for a minute?" My mother laughs at almost anything. She also ignores waiters. I have never worn a red beret. My mother often forced me to wear clothes in navy, yellow and green. My father force fed me because I was too skinny. But he knew I would always eat lobster. If the option was there, my brother ordered lobster at restaurants. He became inured to it, and liked to assert his prowess by the size of lobster he could eat. He ordered it once when he was out with a family friend, the one whose frosted lipstick and black leather pants I coveted. Probably, it was a two-pound lobster, my father said, because the family friend had said, "You know what your son ordered?" Still, my parents talk about the time my brother went out with the family friend, who is no longer a family friend, and ordered the two-pound lobster.
