Designer, writer, activist, muse, bodhisattva.
Non-Fiction Writings
Photolog
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Helium
I waited with anticipation of his arrival at a café my friends & I stumbled upon by accident. I sat there with my coffee and with my friends and, truth be told, I wanted very much to be alone while I waited for him. It felt odd to possess this electricity for a man whom I’ve read and communicated with online but never met in person, and now I was only minutes away from finally meeting him.
Him.
I traveled to this city for adventure, he traveled for friendship. We would come together to meet and—do what? To meet. And I waited to meet him for the first time, and I sat with my friends, and I drank my tea and I turned my head and attention to the door every time someone entered the café.
I knew it was him when he stepped into the entryway. He lowered his umbrella to the floor, and his hair was wet from the rain pouring gently outside. He wore jeans, the modern style of dark indigo and distressed lines, and a black t-shirt under his modern leather jacket. I quickly surveyed his clothes so I could focus on his face. Especially his eyes. I always notice the eyes of any face, they often tell me more than what a person chooses to reveal. I had been reading his words for so long that I wanted to find myself lost in his eyes as I have so many times before in his writing. He has eyes that are soft, open, liquid, luminous. And his eyes lit up as he made his way into the café and hugged me hello. This was our first contact, our first time together in the flesh.
My friends were hungry and suggested lunch at a canteria down the street. He and I followed two paces behind my hosts, our time was limited and I wanted to account for every minute spent to with him. I didn’t know how to make conversation with someone whom I’ve only known from an online context, so I only asked about his writing and current state of affairs. I figured all other conversation could flow naturally after that.
I asked him about the guy in his life, hoping that he is happy and enjoying another’s affections. He tells me that he is in fact not happy, at least with the guy, and I quickly chose another topic. But our words, our conversation, they are fumbling like wallflowers at a school dance. It was hard not to smile when we looked at each other, and we couldn’t find comfort in front of my friends. Conversation was silenced with eating and inside jokes, nothing being said that would require much dialogue from anyone at our table. One of my hosts suggests a thrift store down the street, a perfect opportunity to spend precious moments together. Again, we walked together and followed two paces or more behind my friends.
I make a clumsy joke about holding hands and skipping down the street together, now that we have finally met in the flesh. He takes my hands and the words of Walt Whitman – “I Sing the Body Electric” – are alive and pulse my heart.
We wander the aisles of the thrift store together, my arm around his neck and shoulders, a manner that is half joking and half longed-for. I use the clothes as a buffer, making conversation about him and wanting more of him than what I’ve only read. I want my knowledge of him to be unique, I want to know what it means to know his smile and light stubble of his beard. There is never enough time, there is only what I can ask and what I can steal from hidden glances.
My friends need to take me for a quick drive around the city before they get their tattoos. I tell them that I’ll meet up with them at their car, I want to walk him back to his. A knowing look and a devilish smile is flashed at me – I am too transparent with my friends, everyone present for that matter – and I return a glance that demands their silence, or at least a refrain of laughter until we are out of earshot. But now I can be alone with him, and this time is spent walking to his car in the distance and under a steady stream of raindrops.
We stand outside his car, under a tree that provides little coverage from the rain. He stands there and smiles at me, his eyes reducing me to a grinning fool with an admitted crush. I’m always so introverted when I am first attracted to someone, the proof that my strong veneer is as breakable as thin ice over potholes in the road. But he is still standing in front of me, still smiling and still looking at me with those eyes, those eyes, those eyes. We kiss good-bye. I leave undone.
I walk in the rain back to my friends, already in the car and laughing over their inside jokes. I am given gentle pushes about living in the city, having the advantage of more time to spend with him. I look out my window that has already fogged from the the heat inside and cool rain outside. My friends are talking, but I am not listening. I am making hearts on the window with my finger. The condensation collects at the bottom of the hearts and trickles down the window to make wrinkled threads. My hearts take flight, my heart is lifted, I am still lost in eyes and words.
Friday, 2003 January 03