Saturday, April 25, 2015

Fiction vs Friction Series

I remember the moment when, in a Holdenism sort of manner, I decided there are two kinds of people in this world: those who are here to experience it, and those who, unbeknownst to themselves, will work as an enigmatic vessels for reconstruction. 

The ‘experiencers’, they will live. Oh how they will live. They will laugh, and cry, and have babies. They will succumb to the monotonous cyclical obligatory patterns of society. And life will spin them like a pair of sneakers in a LG SteamWasher. They will spin until they can’t hold on anymore. They will spin until they crash. Chemical biological phenomena will occur.

The earth will take a deep breath.

It is a beautiful process, too much for words, too much for song, too much for film, too much for books. Then, slowly, the washer will start to turn again, and they will want pets, and host family BBQ’s, and argue about the color of their bedroom wallpaper. And they will make love. And they will make hate. And everything will feel far grander than reality. How I bloody envied these people. Although I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted what they had, nothing is as appealing of a thing or idea or person that is deemed taboo, or completely unavailable. And as I shuffled my feet to an old folk song, and bore the weight of my glued-on smile, I knew in that moment that it was the truth: all that life was not for me. I was not an ‘experiencer.’

The music slowed, and I made my way to a chair and sat down. A few grandmothers aside, I was one of the few sitting. I contemplated Universal shifts, and wondered if it was all too much to shoulder. My heart felt heavy, but in case someone took notice, I kept my smile. I watched the men turn the women by their hips. I watched the women throw back their heads and laugh. And it made me happy and sad all at once. A few slow songs later, I still sat there, uncomfortably grinning. Don't give yourself away. I don’t care that I am the only young girl sitting. This will be easier when you are older, I told myself. People won’t stare. I don’t care.

And that’s when he grabbed my hand, pulled me up, in, and close. His breath smelled of a man who’d surrendered his mind to the open bar. His hands were sweaty, sweaty on my ass. He was older, and I wondered how long he’d been watching me. Maybe it’s not a pity dance if they’re old enough to be your father. I let him nuzzle his face on the curve of my neck, closed my eyes, and as he spun me around, I tried to forget, tried to forget that enigmatic vessel, the task that I was utterly clueless about. I tried to forget the man I once I loved. I tried to forget I had to let it all go. Let it all go.

The vessels. They have to let go, or get dragged. Get dragged to every pivotal life event where they feel out of place, and obediently hang around in some corner at their sibling’s wedding. Constant, subtle, numbing, dulling reminders - this is not for you. Inevitably, these vessels will drown themselves in work. Where else do you hide? They’ll blame their work, their boss, their passion. And the experiencers, they will resent. You were absent. You didn't care. But it’s not true. The often-unconscious signs of simply passing through this world are not without consequence and pain. Some will do their part, and drink themselves do death. Some will overdose. Some will just die, alone. When their work is done. Unbeknownst to themselves. Done.

I remember that moment, I knew, but still, still I closed my eyes and pretended that drunken clown wasn’t wired to walk away. I closed my eyes and reformed the temperature of his body, the scent of his skin, and our fundamental difference. Experiencer. Vessel. For a millisecond, I imagined myself unaware, laughing, drunk, spinning around on the dance floor, stupidly happy - like everyone else.




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