My Friend

A friend of mine came into the smoke-filled coffee shop (By 'friend' I mean one of those people you like a fair amount, whom you spend time with out of convenience, and may or may not speak to when you are separated by long distance). I said, 'Whattup, what's goin on?' He said, 'Whattup, aint much.' 'Whatch you been gettin up to?' I replied profoundly. He said, 'Packin. I'm out. Goin somewhere new.' 'How's that?' I said, half-paying attention, half-winking at the cosmopolitan woman with the shine in the corner. Then he got all serious on me, 'Funny thing is I packed up my stuff the other day and it all fits in two boxes. Everything I own, sitting there in two medium-sized cardboard boxes. Clothes, Memories, Stuff.' Trying to pay attention now, 'Does that depress you, or does it make you proud of the way you live?' He took a sip and said reflectively, 'I don't know.' Strange.

Me and You and Text

Please don't look for me or you in this text. You may not find me--amidst the smoke, the sea, the confusion. You will certainly not find the me you are looking for. That may frustrate you. Sorry to let you down. Sorry you are looking for something that doesn't exist. You will definitely not find you here, and that might disappoint you. So, don't go looking and don't go interpreting and don't go flattering yourself. See you all soon.

In the Sun

"I picture you in the sun wondering what went wrong
And falling down on your knees asking for sympathy
And being caught in between all you wish for and all you seen
And trying to find anything you can feel that you can believe in."

There you are. The one. The road. The journey. The experience. It's been surreal. The venom and the anger--now wrapped in tears and vulnerability. The frustration and misunderstanding--now flowing down your cheeks, your hands trying to cover not the hopelessness, not depression--no, don't get it confused--trying to cover the utter and complete emptiness of non-being; of having yourself evicted from yourself because of another.

"I know I would apologize if I could see your eyes
’cause when you showed me myself I became someone else."

Strange. Ironic. I can't see you. I don't get to be inside anymore. Your eyes are shielded, begging me to stop looking--to stop gazing--to stop being inside. The vulnerability that is so evident you try to hide. But, I can't help it. I am inside. And I feel how alone you are.

But here is the cruel paradox. It was only you who showed me--helped me--enabled me--to be me. When I looked into those eyes--the ones I'm no longer given the privilege to see--you showed me how to be me. Yet, when I became me--well . . .

"How much will I find
If I find
If I find my own way
How much will I find
You"

The consequences of that paradox: now I look on my own. I look with no eyes to look into. I gaze with no window into any soul. No, I search--I try--I am me apart from you. Yet, I am only me because of you. This is strange to me. Strange and excruciating.

"But I was caught in between all you wish for and all you need."

And

"I been caught in between all I wish for and all I need."

That's it, isn't it? Its universal, and here, it is particular. This is human. This is existence. This is the paradox of existence. Kitsch existentialism? Maybe. Pubescent questioning? Perhaps. But, in an age of 'posts-', of cynicism, of difference. In a time of technological prosthetics which replace souls and informational identities which replace the body. In a place which now looks like all others. What else do you, or me, or any of us have to say? Only . . .

"May god’s love be with you
Always
May god’s love be with you."

A prayer? No. Liturgy? No. A command to a certain set of beliefs or a particular idea of 'God'? No, again. Instead, a desire to move past. A desire for new. A hope--despite the paradox--that need and want--that myself and myself, that me and you, aren't infinitely separate, but only temporally alienated.

I Want

I want to be polite. I want to smile at the right time and shake hands in a firm, but friendly manner. I want to eat properly. I want to drink enough to be fun, but not enough to be out of sorts. I want to write thank you notes in a timely manner. I want to remember birthdays, holidays and saints days. I want to shave neatly and smell fragrantly masculine. I want to talk about the weather, taxes, children, mortgages and petrol. I want to wear an array of bland jumpers and converse about equally bland subjects. I want to develop a good polite, fake laugh that is convincing, but not overbearing. I want to be interested in sitcoms and reality shows. I want to do my wash regularly. I want to fold the clothes neatly and place them all in their pre-ordained homes. I want to say things at parties that are interesting, but not controversial. I want to go on vacation/holiday for two weeks, and complain about it the rest of the year. I want to complain about waiter's and talk about bad service. I want ironing to consume at least 80 hours of my total time on earth. I want a succession of 5 year plans to be the content of my middle age.

I want life to fit in a square. I want the horizon to appear horizontal and without surprise. I want to live perpendicularly at all times. I want the colors to be pretty, but not confusing. I want my existence to be solvable by Pythagoras's theorem--right angles and square roots. I want to see straight and walk even straighter. I want to move through the universal in the particular, without having to deal with the abstract. I want Religion to be Ethical, but not Existential. I want to fit it all in neat cubby holes and to always have a compartment for each breath I take. I want to look at the sunset and be thinking about what's for dinner, and nothing else. I want to walk in meadows and say things like, 'Lovely day, don't you think?', and 'oooh, look at the flowers, aren't they gorgeous?' I want to breathe without reflecting.

Boardwalk, Beach, Beauty

A few days or weeks or years went by, and the smoke-filled coffee shop took its toll on me. Gagging on smoke and text, I couldn't ingest anymore. My lungs burned from the combination of sea water, smoke and dirty, precocious, esoteric air. My heart beat rapidly at times--inflated by the adrenaline that comes with ideas and the same (different) adrenaline that comes with difficulty in breathing.

I pulled myself up--raised out of the nausea of that coffee shop--the sea of text and smoke. I had no reason. I had no purpose to do so. There was no revelation. No epiphany. It was a pre-conscious, instinctual movement. At some point, something said it was time to go. So I walked.

On the boardwalk--between the sea and the shop--I ran saw a girl I knew once, walking. As always, she had one eye on the water and one on the people all around her. Everyone she saw, contacted, met, or just smiled at had a better day because of it. She was unique in this way--a revelation. She seemed to have an energy unfounded and an enthusiasm for breathing unjustified. But, dont get me wrong, this wasnt an annoying, cheery person who is the equivalent of human cotton candy. No, within the enthusiasm there was charm. Suporting that smile was wisdom. I couldnt take my mind off her. It was uncanny how the water came so close to her, yet the people remained just as close. It all seemed to balance in, on and within her. She seemed so beautiful because she seemed so human--so vulnerable, yet so whole; so enthralled by the water, but never enough to lose her way on the boardwalk; so magnetic, so enthralling--transcendent and immanent all at the same time.

Strange.