"somewhere other than inside the out there" -- part three
stuck in the round robin of an introductory writing class (through most of which i copied song lyrics in my margins or stared at the magnificently loathesome boy in the back corner), we had to critique each other's assignments. bored and tired, i picked up the paper i was supposed to be reading and glanced over the first page. on the back, i wrote something along the lines of "this is crap." done with that idiotic display of vocabulary, i picked up the next one and gave it the once over. brilliance. well, most certainly brilliance for an intro course in which most people dillydallied around their grandfather's untimely death or how much they adored the simplicity of a kitten... blah blah blah ... these people did tend to go on. i was wrapped from head to toe in this story. i flipped the paper over and gave my critique, lengthy and analytical. this was an extraordinary amount of energy for me to put into peer commentary. i cited tom robbins and mentioned that it was the first paper to actually barb me. i turned it back over and saw the name, his name. how i hated him. he had stolen my seat in the back corner. he had made some suave remarks about how he noticed i always wore headphones or carried altoids. i turned the paper back in, put on my headphones, and headed out to the steps of the building. i lit a cigarette and opened my bag to change whatever mix tape i was listening to before i walked home.
"hey!"
i looked around.
"yeah, you. were you the one that wrote that thing about tom robbins on the back of my paper?"
and he was just standing there, all expectant and waiting for my answer. just standing there with his eyes constantly moving from my feet to my face. i couldn't believe he was just standing there, unknowing of tides my heart was experiencing. he just stood there with his feet on the ground and gesturing with his cigarette.
"yeah. that was me."
"(a), you have really fucking cool handwriting. and (b), tom robbins is amazing."
now, at this point, (if you have no experience in the tom robbins circle of debate), you have to realize that the most important question was coming up. most people, having read maybe two or three of his books and not getting most of the references or the general mise-en-scene of the novels, would say skinny legs and all. for future reference, never tell a redhead that that is your favorite tom robbins book.
"what's your favorite one?"
and he looked at me, not having moved from that one tile beside the column.
"still life with woodpecker."
he could have taken my heart right then. literally, shoved his hand through my rib cage and claimed it as his very own, branding it with the camel light between his fingers.
a dear friend of mine once told a boy who was interested in me that he had no chance if he couldn't talk about music and literature with me. i grew up with my nose in a constant sea of stories and the ramones purging my angst. i moved around a lot, and these were the friends that i knew until my dad retired and found a way to stay in the same city through my high school career.
that's neither here nor there.
let's talk about connection.
you see, what had happened on that porch, under a setting sun, after some minute class trying to teach us how to write, in the depth of boston, was that i found myself not wanting to leave.
i got scared.
connection does that to me. it scares the living shit out of me when i find someone that identifies that thin transluscent line from their heart to mine.
anyway, so connection. two people meet. two people start talking. two people keep talking until their voices meld and unite becoming one soft vision.
it's guaranteed to break your heart eventually.
we just never thought it would be so soon.
tonight has been long and drawn out. i've got to get some sleep. we'll talk more tomorrow.
