<How>, he wondered, <do the clouds hang so uniformly over this reticent ocean below?> He fixated on the origins of the color deep. <I may have pretty blue eyes, but this translucent blue of 7:30 p.m. shallow tides breaking up is simply unfair; a blue that steals sand from your heels, one that inspires and invites.> He watched and his shadow came along – doing its part. How odd that we have no dominion over our shadows, but they stick with us through slip and sin. <My eyes – they don’t invite anyone, or inspire anything.> At least, that was the reality he was convinced of, as we’ve all convinced ourselves of something.
Fibrous threads of shadow and shine trapped between the tide’s breaths; breaths now sighs and no longer windy heaves. This was the great soothing he had imagined upon himself in that sterile room while they took numbers and readings and filled out charts about his bodily functions asking him questions like, “How many drinks do you have per week? Are you a smoker? Do you ever hold anything in your mouth like a pipe – on the right side – for example?”
Had we arrived earlier, we’d have found Huck mindlessly watching reflections of passer-bys enter the La Bretxa shopping center, watching reflections mingle with the empty space. Now, a tall and slender brunette smokes an equally formed cigarette; each with their own buttonish nose. Her athletic clothes flesh out expressions of youth and health, and she koala- hangs on the minimalist café patio’s white table; on top, a short glass vessel in which a scorched cortado observes a world intent on consumption. From the zamboni cleaner just inside La Bretxa’s sliding gates murmurs of gossip reach us unintelligibly yet with great color and verve. The shiny black lab at the table between Huckleberry and the socializing, whooshing whirl on wheels appears as joyously perplexed by these two neighbors as Huck is. A fairly Spanish scene: to see a friend or acquaintance in the market as you’re cleaning the floors with a mini-zamboni, then to start up a conversation while leaving the loud machine running. Each glassy diametric slide allowing bloated sonic blurts to bubble out into the sunny plaza is audienced by on-looks from all directions. That’s just what we do, as humans. It’s not always conscious, or by reason, or by interest – but when we hear certain sounds, we turn and look. We respond equally when the eyes on the back of our heads beg us to address a distant observer. Or when a sudden chill pulls at each strand of hair trying to pull us somewhere else to get cover and some more clothing for goodness sake. Also, when there’s that certain person over to the left and, as a nasty trick, we shoot a quick look at a random individual that actually holds no intrigue for us whatsoever all just to incite a (hopefully mildly envious) reaction performed by the much more interesting person on the left. There are many ways which we are called to turn our heads and those of others, but the most exciting is when that turn of the spine leads to a turning of the hips; and, what then?
However, we’ve arrived too late and your first glimpse into Huck’s journey during that beautiful evening beach walk has moved on already. That’s all it takes to miss the train, my friends: so listen close. Now, we are left with a cloudy night scene above the very same La Concha beach, with shy lightning hiding behind the tall Jesus statue adorned mossy hilltop fortress. Birds mock the grounded with hanging glides, letting stormy gusts stretch out worn feathers. The horizon parts a near perfect reflection and for a moment the Spanish city of San Sebastian appears both just above and just below water.
The storm left trees down on the American car lined Madison, Wisconsin roads. Debris made street navigation a lesser-of-two-futilities. His second shift back at work would ride on the play of rain and branches. With so much debris to pick up, and so much sky falling already, the perfunctory act of opening up the shop after so long really didn’t even enter into the equation which summed up his e-mo(L)ting mind.
He came into work the day before. The looks he saw were those that friends don at the movies when one of their favorite characters dies: someone smiles when they welcome you back, and when they see the new expression on your face all mirth drains from their faces like they felt you were embarrassed to see them. “Wow, you look more wise, AJ” one friend said nervously. <Man, she thinks I look like a distant and emotionless asshole> Huckleberry hyper-sensitively self-conscienced. “Well, probably just the jet lag” Huck responded hoping to ease himself out of the newly acquired persona and inhabit some previous and more Madison-acceptable persona from another time; a time when he didn’t have to defend himself for who he was everyday, when conversation wasn’t brute, when jokes weren’t crude, when looks weren’t soul deep, when eyes didn’t fixate and interrogate, when he wasn’t constantly put on trial by the tensing iris of his audiences. He was excited to see everyone, but out of touch with how to express himself there in front of these entirely new old-friends. The numbing shock of re-integration manifests thickly on the face, and it takes a while to clean up the aftermath. Not only that, but he found himself battling a sudden set of chills which later tempted him to the couching kitties and their snuggling pleas. The hardest thing was the general enthusiasm with which Madisonians approached him. One can only take in so much sunshine; especially after a final week of lightless Spanish subways, stuffy RENFE trains, and cramped international airplanes. When Huck arrived in Spain in 2013, the bus stop greeted him with a large pile of fresh shit in the bathroom doorway. When he arrived in Madison in 2014, there were unending chains of hugs and how-are-you’s with great big smiles beaming forth impossible positive energy. Both transitions took their tolls in different ways; transitioning between distinct cultural perspectives always poses poignant challenges. Have you ever noticed, friends, what happens when you reunite with those who you’ve missed so dearly for so long? It is one of the most fascinating things.
Have you ever noticed – in counterpoint – what happens when those who, unknowingly long for each other so dearly, miss uniting? That is the case before us here, now. I must apologize for leading into tonight’s story with such hoisting of Huckleberry’s mundane geographical transition; but now I bring you to the heart of it, what you’ve all been waiting for. Thus I thank you for joining me here, beside the cozy curtains of a cafe window seating us opposite 3 white windowed buildings; their arrangement looks like a 3 fold section cut along a 60 degree arc from a folding fan, where each building – should you follow the imaginary vanishing point below us – ends point to point to point with the other buildings at some not so distant center. Crammed they are, and the vanishing sun thrusts a final burst of energy from behind the hilltop neighborhood skyline. The teal building on the left has 6 windows above the ground floor, the yellow-green building centering the view before us has one expansive second story window with an overhanging awning, and the purple building to the right bricks out 4 windows above the ground floor. While we must keep our voices down at this curtained window, please pay very special attention to what I’m about to relay. The liquid nature of the candlelight coming from that center building’s giant and open window belongs entirely to the ceramicist who lives there; and also to her hobby. After a long day of working with earth, she comes home and works on puzzle like wood models of famous architecture. Her little flat resembles an extravagant neighborhood of humanity’s best ( and worst ) dwellings. She refuses to use glue, tape, or other conjoining agents and instead insists on designing each model so that it may be fitted together piece by piece, as a Thai pavilion is conjoined without nails or ropes. Not to give you the wrong impression, I must add that she once confessed this habit unrelated to any artistic obsession over authenticity or integrity of method, but – rather – that she prefers the simplicity of these designs. For those of you who don’t know artists, what she really means to say is, “I’d rather get my projects done hassle free.” Who would, after all, want to add more hassle and fuss to an already meticulous undertaking? For, when one recreates the canyon adobe dwellings of the North American Southwest, one must carve out all manner of curved contours that must also lock together into place. Imagine the frustration and mess that glue or tacks would bring into the picture! The candle light by which she works casts shadows across the streets onto the buildings here, above this curtained window where we sit. I’m truly sorry that you can’t witness them; but watching her dance about her balcony studio, I’m sure you can imagine the arabesque beauty lighted upon the facade above us. I must note that a great deal of the light tonight seems to be drooping from that awning, as if thrusting against it the light turned to an infinitely slow sandfall dusting upon the scene below. The multiple textures of light interplaying about that aperture are truly transfixing. In the teal house, to the left, a keen eye will catch a young man wandering about the house appearing here and there in any one of the 6 tall windows. He’s lived there on and off for some time. “Lived” isn’t quite fair, for he house sits for a retired (travel bound) couple every other two weeks. For half a months time, at a time, his job involves enjoying the charming hilltop vantage as it spans out over the light-spattered old town. Lately, beyond the indulgences offered him by the well stocked kitchen and dessert pantry, and beyond the the views over the city, the boy has been keeping his ears attentive to wait for the most punctual voice to appear from nowhere. Why such an unlocatable voice should grace the neighborhood at exactly 9:30 every evening he did not know. He did not so much care to know why, as long as the happy glow born to him was sustained to reach another day’s evening.
The singing came not entirely without lyrics, for it was delivered in a rare gibberish, a practiced nonsense regulated by beauty alone. As the fountain of these musings was kept from his myopic eyes, he did not make out the range of textures sprung upon the sculpted canvass of the buildings across the street until – as we shall see some time later – one momentous day he would not retire his glasses until after dinner and witness the raptures of coincidence.
If you look closely at the top right roof of that purple building, however, I’ll show you who that fountaining muse is. That girl was brought to this neighborhood some time ago as, one evening, she spied a man on his No-Way-In-Particular stop to talk quite sincerely with a pack of cats at the little park that bifurcates the main plaza below and the old hilltop neighborhood above. He seemed to be an odd fellow, with still eyes but a busy mouth. She snuck up closer. She hid like any child hides in a game, with great faith that the intent and thought of hiding alone will transform any oddly shaped obstruction into the most capable camouflage -regardless of its structural nature or degree of transparency. She crept closer. He wasn’t talking to these cats but singing to them, like any strange man does on a good evening. She found the fellow so peculiar, that – as he made way to leave – she decided that her hiding game was just too fun to quit, and stealthily shadowed his journey home all the way to the top of the hilltop barrio.
There the man entered a purple building with 4 windows above the ground floor. He entered, however, from the back door which led directly to his flat at the very top of the building. He could not bare to enter the front and pass up the stairs, for that was, my friends, to pass a door and a life which he was not ready to Re-Mind again. As the girl followed him to the back entrance, she was deeply proud of her victory – her triumph – validation of her abilities – and registration of her win. However, now she was in tune with a different motivation. The goal of winning was now exchanged for the goal of pleasing curiosity. She wide-eyed the fire escape.
The old man walked through his dark flat and enjoyed the way his body was leisurely digesting the early dinner at the bookshop tavern. His cautious movements reeked of excitement: the best of his day was here. Slowly and carefully making his way to the wall piano beside the window against the wall of the yellow-green building, he opened the thin white veils on what can only be described to be kaleidoscopic projections upon the neighbors’ night lives. He never, ever, saw those living masterpieces without being moved to the core of his being. It was these images afforded him that gave him the courage to play. Now, he never really learned. He never studied. Yet, the time he spent watching the reality manifesting on those bricks turned illuminated canvass allowed an unknown talent to breathe and develop into its own. He didn’t study, he didn’t learn; he just played, and his playing underwent exquisite evolution. In fact, it seemed to him, by some hallucination, that the more of himself he released from those accidentally abandoned keys, the more the floating flocks of contours developed in depth, in range, in precision, in rhythm, in intuition. He found himself barely keeping up. Every day his relationship with the piano became more advanced than his relationship with words, words with which he might define those hanging tapestries of woven light-works across the street – but, in some sick fashion, those complex images also kept becoming more difficult to define which pushed him further into accidental mutual mastery with the piano.
When, one day, the piano from the apartment below never appeared at night to echo into the sprawling images enamored with the sound reaching out, the mischievous little girl – for the first time in months since she had nightly come to watch the strange spectacle of light, motion, and sound – knew an incomprehensible but familiar sadness. There is no loss which we may rightly comprehend, but we get to know it so very well as loss can indeed be acquired, as loss by its nature stays with us in the wake and bend of reality’s reflections that stay floating on the surface of our minds even when the substance of their source has long disappeared from view. When one day she found her aunt bent over a weeping desk, she witnessed the stream-stuttered flow of breath with the singular perspicacity of a child. She had to participate in this event, with her aunt, though she did not quite understand the source of her mild shakes and restrained bursts of throaty weeps. The flow that came so naturally to her aunts eyes just wouldn’t come to her, but the girl reciprocated instinctively with a hug and a melody-less, word-less song.
Having become so enamored by the incidental love between the light and sound of that hilltop neighborhood, the loss of the sound stole away even her shaky breaths. Who would sing for her? Who could she safely reach out to? Who was there to hold her but herself?
At first, that night’s work on the balcony was startling difficult. The ceramicist couldn’t place it – but something integral was missing from her tool set. She looked everywhere, even her bedroom, her kitchen, and her bathroom. She put out the candles in her studio and lit the stoic lights of her closets for last resort inspections. She was, at that moment, missing an unplaceable anything so woven into her life that it’s vague and all permeating absence paralyzed her focus; and then, clarity started out from somewhere above. It started out shrill, and slowly descended as it relaxed and registered low into the foundation of grief. The artist came to the window, recognizing this grief to be her own. She re-lit the candles of her studio and allowed the grief in her maddened state transmute into wooden relics. These are the instincts which artists act upon; they understand their reasonings, without actually having reasoned them out.
The disappearance of the shadows and light across the street broke the girls weeping into a shrieking sob whose force fell into a sustained siren which engraved the remarkable exterior emptiness with the densely interwoven losses she was experiencing. To, after so many remarkable and unfailing nights, witness them both go was simply more than her incredibly sensitive heart could stomach. And then, as she began to sob out new, more articulate stretches of sound, light came back to the fanned out buildings opposite. She stood up and moved as she conjured new sounds, singing alongside the memory of those piano events printed in her ears like carbon copy manuscripts. As she recalled them with more clarity, she began to imitate its style – as there was never a repeated melody, or re-touched theme, she could never sing the internalized treasures sound by sound, but could only re-invent the musicality as she went. As the light grew stronger, and the visions re-appeared on the facades just above where we are sitting here at this curtained window, she mimicked not only the nature of those sounds but also the dancing of their incidental partner.
We cannot say that these creatures failed to unite, nor may we register their union. We may, however, note their harmonious communion. Had they spoken to each other at some point, or had consistent conversations we may not have seen this scene unfold with the pleated hilltop skyline. They are so hidden from each other, but inseparable. We shall see the beauty of their collective efforts continue to manifest another night, but if you could now tune your attention to Chicago, on a warm July morning, you will have before you two proper men in proper attire awaiting appropriately dressed candidates for the day’s group interview session. The two men, Don and Justin, stood like nervous shrine statues outside the interview room but warmly welcomed the job applicants as they entered.
Don had the classic dry American accent that most people expect of a business man. Interestingly, he uncannily reminded Huck of a former music library co-worker, Hawk. Hawk had witty manners and tended to diffuse tense situations with side-stepping humor. The goofy resemblance between the two nearly rendered Huckleberry incapable of looking Don frankly in the eyes. Don’s teammate was Justin, who seemed more honed in on assessing the depth and nature of each interviewee’s intentions for applying to the company. They seemed relatively disappointed with the group of applicants and by half-way through the nine hours of interviewing, one could see the process wear on them just as it wore on Huckleberry and his fellow competitors. These are the type of veterans who know in just a short introduction if the candidate is suitable for the job. They’ve seen just about every type of candidate belonging to categories of potentially successful and potentially hazardous for the company. You can never be certain who will work until they get on the job; but, after years of recruiting and training, it’s second nature to spot patterns, narrow options, and reduce error.
Both Don and Justin seemed quite concerned that the company would receive the best applicants for the pure purpose that the whole company benefits. They were sincere in their aims, which one doesn’t expect of business men from American companies. This was, in part, the beauty of applying to a Japanese company. All cultures present their unique challenges in the work environment, but the palpable impression Huckleberry picked off Don and Justin was that they actually wanted the best for their company and that meant doing whatever they could within the power in their position. Being interviewed by satisfied employees who take their job very seriously, was propitious to Huckleberry.
The room allotted by the hotel was windowless. Abrasively static light had all the inverse aspects complimentary to a naturally produced cloud streak of colourful iridescence. Stale pastels drenched in dusty hues soaked up any looseness or ease. As a natural act of emotional entropy, applicants would walk in post-introduction with all their zest and verve only to have these tools sapped away by the grave neutrality which fostered only distance and indifference. Having to interview fifteen nervously demure individuals for nine hours, Don and Justin had plenty coming at them. Huck, similarly on a sandbar among foreign waters, couldn’t get enough of the free water provided on the tables. All the hydration he sucked down seemed to seam out through organizational cracks, holes in preparation, or escape into the dry heat of the air condition-less and tension leaden atmosphere. The armada had been sacked overnight, and the interviewers had come to inspect the survivors assessing which could be saved and which were doomed.
Given the conditions, it’s hard to say who was more uncomfortable – the interviewers, or the interviewed.
These types of recruiting days shock everyone involved: one must be both competitive and yet as supportively harmonious as possible. As one goes through the day rapidly learning personal details about the other applicants, one must also watch them disappear through a series of cuts made through the day. Not everyone takes it well, when they’re cut. Others seem to handle it with temporary grace. It is only natural, of course, for the ego to be damaged; of which none should be ashamed to admit. Beyond this, for Huckleberry, watching others get cut from the running was not entirely enjoyable. Huck, as being selected in second grade to switch elementary schools to join the Gifted and Talented program only offered at a “better supplied” school, as he was informed in front of his entire sixth grade class that the Lion’s Club had selected him (a nobody) as student of the year instead of the Karina (the popular girl), as he once pretended to be invisible as the PA system read off his name on the prom court list in front of those ‘entitled’ to it (popular jocks), Huckleberry always felt a strange empathy for those from whom he seemed to steal away the reward of great effort, the realization of dreams. Not everyone comes to the table with the same skill-set, or the skill set arbitrarily required for a particular competition, but most people come to the fight with real hunger, with hardship, and with furtively held goals. When you begin to admire the great qualities in your competition, seeing them cut from the race effects you, too; even if their cut from said race means securing your lock on success.
So, upon entering the final stage of the day’s interview process with Don and Justin, Huckleberry didn’t want to know what brought him there; for he would be incapable of understanding why others would pick him out from a crowd. What he could digest, what he was trained to digest, was critique: How could he improve on his interviewing? What were his weaknesses from their perspective? Where did he need to focus energy and attention in order to be a more effective interviewee?
After all, just because he was sitting before Don and Justin after several cuts throughout the day in no way guaranteed that Huckleberry had been given the green light to Japan. Rather, there were at least two more phases to pass through, two more levels of clearance before he even got to Japan; then, there would be a two week training session after which the company could still deny him the job. He trusted them with delivering critical blows, and they had keen observations: he was initially distant, indifferent, and hard to read. They apparently didn’t know how invested in the program he was, and didn’t get much expression from him until halfway through the day meaning that they took a chance even letting him beyond the first cut.
The critique wasn’t entirely surprising. Huck had, after all the same tactic for taking tests: the less emotionally involved with the test, the lest personal he made it, the higher score he would invariably attain. In the world of test taking, distance and cool indifference was a sure fire path to success. In an interview, such a tactic isn’t quite favourable. One needs to be personable, charming, enthusiastic, and approachable. Some habits, or strategies, die hard.
After satisfying Huckleberry’s request to deliver some critique on his performance, they wrapped up the interview and said farewell with strange ease and relaxed vulnerability considering the day’s nine stuffy hours of tense airs.
On his way out of Chicago, heading towards Union Station to take the Amtrak to Wisconsin, Huckleberry encountered a contentedly confused Chinese man. Comfortably lost, but in need to catch his train he turned to Huckleberry, who in both baby face and dapper attire must have been the least intimidating fellow on the streets, and asked Huck, “Excuse me, do you know where train 59 is?”
Huck smiled back and said, “Sure, I can help you out. May I see your ticket?” The man placed the 3 by 6 ticket into vision bringing the train number (59), the destination (Memphis) and the time of departure (8:05) into light. “Great,” Huck addressed the man, “I’m going to the same part of Union Station. This entrance here is only for a few Metra lines. We need to go around the corner and down two blocks. How about I accompany you there?”
“Oh really? That’d be great. This is my first time taking this train.”
“Is this your first time in Chicago?” Huck asked.
“No, I live in Wilmet.” He replied.
Huck decided to steer small talk towards blunt inquiry. “So, you live in Wilmet, but you’re from…” Huck left a pause for the man to fill.
“I’m from southeast China. Very near to South Korea and Japan.”
“Huh, how’bout that. Are you going to Memphis on vacation?”
“Actually, for business. Yep, I go down for a meeting and come straight back. Ten hours in a train just for a meeting!”
Huckleberry marveled, not for the first time, how trusting travelling strangers were with personal information. “Yikes! Sorry to hear you won’t be getting a rest or a chance to do some sightseeing. Memphis is a neat town.”
“Are you from Chicago?” the man asked Huck.
“No, from Wisconsin.”
“Then…” the man left a pause for Huck to fill.
Huck, his eyebrows up and to the left, smiled, “Job interview.”
“Wooah, how did it go? What was it for?”
“It went well, there’s no promise that I got the job, yet; but it went well. It’s to teach English.”
“Really? You know, you can make lots of money teaching English in China. Anywhere you want to go, good money in that career.”
“Well, I apologize to reveal that I’m actually hoping to go to Japan. I’m so sorry!” Huckleberry and the man both laughed heartily. An innocent joy busted both of their guts, and an international tension we normally define as uncomfortable became laughable. At this time they had entered the Main Entrance and reached the Amtrak terminal They separated with smiling handshakes, wishing each other safe journeys. These two will never meet each other again; yet, the nature of their encounter will echo on. You see, reaching out to lend a hand and help a stranger can be quite easy. Very often we find that our deeper concerns for those we know more intimately bring about an uneasiness through overwhelmingly complex obstacles of logic and circumspect maneuvering which retain our compassion and silence our sympathy; our hands stiffen to our sides and our lips purse into an ugly contortion known so well to those who defy necessary catharsis.
Huckleberry made his way towards the grocery store to prepare for dinner and spied two of the neighborhood foxes. These two foxes stood waiting at a stoplit intersection; they were a perfect example of those who know each other all too well, yet cannot reach out so easily to one another. They are each other’s private life, in some truth; thus the salty pickle. Were one obliged to undergo a catharsis, the obsession of all their inner world would produce the very likeness of the other; which, in this moment, could prove horrendously awkward. You must understand, Beverly and Leon have known each other for quite some time. From afar, the two foxes could just as well be the tide and the moon for, though they are eternally inclined towards each other, the never touch. Having to wait there, together, for the light illuminates their unbearable awkwardness by the alarming siren worthy red light. The chance encounter brought upon by the fates of Chores and Errands went swimmingly down the stream with merry minds and facile conversations. However, now that they’re required to stand still, the terrifying reality that they haven’t really faced each other during the conversation implies a mutual apocalypse. Without feet to guide them, their eyes and heads wander slowly to the corner shop across the way, the field behind the park next to the soup house, and the cat pursued passer-by. If for a brief moment they might fail in their innocent evasions, and truly face each other then the very worst – and I do mean the most dreadful worst – might happen; the other might pick up on the uncontrollable mass of admiration dwelling soft like a whirlwind in the spring locked core of their heart.
There are those who hunt their obsession with cunning puppetry or divinely distracting lights until the prey gets close enough to chomp down to size; and for those types this pair would be all too tedious. Yet, one must be respectful, and so we won’t prod them. Their special awkwardness before each other brought them to a delightful distraction, during which they missed the light change and upon the horror of this realization Beverly started making a list in her mind of the things which she might bring up to address the humor of their folly. This of course produced two sets of lists, the former and then a latter which consisted of subset lists: reasons why she should or shouldn’t open her mouth at such a frightening moment. Although, Beverly rather unconsciously bent at the hip towards him hoping to get a better view into his world, and Leon rather consciously hoped that his reliance on the wooden cane to stand ‘gainst the weakness in his knees wouldn’t scream out at Beverly like a flashing magenta EXIT sign. While Beverly was getting herself into all sorts of complicated linguistic mysteries, Leon was doing his most-ness not to think. Thinking hadn’t helped him so far, he thought, so best keep to non-thinking. Then, by either an act of mercy or by the impatience of the gods, the light turned mauve, and they exhaled deeply. The next obstacle of course was coordinating themselves across the street. As we’ve witnessed, if merely standing next to each other in one spot was absolutely overwhelming, how could they then repeat the same wretched torture walking in step through the intersection, for that is nothing more than a chain of such troublesome spots! My goodness, would these two just get it out already! What a messy mire of un-spoken admirations! I, for one, sure hope something comes along to help them unbind their hearts, even if that means pulling through layered veils of tears; for, though they be individually transparent, the volume of their storage distorts all light that might otherwise see through to the honest workings of the mind. That is why, when we cry, we must not choke them off. Should they stay inside, we may never see past the ‘seems’ of appearances to actually confront the state of our emotions. Yet, should we respect our tears, then our catharsis will feel like a thousand birch leaves flipping in the breeze. It will rearrange us, instilling courage at times and inspiring acceptance at others. It feels like breathing in the fresh air from the tip of your toes all the way up to the top of your head. A good catharsis starts downhill, as it were, a tumultuous bundled wreckage packaged by suppression and repression. The jangling and howling sounds as the wreck rolls downhill in the first phase may be unpleasantly embarrassing, but it all ends drowned out by bristle-brustling leaves sweeping up the placid river surface shorelined by so many trees unionizing through a whisper.
A whispering union, a catharsis allows long sought submission to gravity, the gravity that pulls us out of ourselves and into participating with the world about us.
It was the defiance of expression, the defiance of catharsis, and the restrained tears building in Leon’s eyes, coming to claim their birthright passage, that ultimately did him in. His non-sentient cane was intellectually unprepared for the snagging brick that, unable to watch any longer, so rancorously grabbed Leon’ left foot as they finished crossing the intersection. Luckily, every ounce of Beverly’s attention hung upon his motions, and with an unknown confidence she caught both him and his tears before all spattered bare before her. That is not to say, that in the restraint of the tears she did not encounter some rare vision of herself. To that other self she saw so small before her, she whispered a secret, which her reflection grabbed and held on to.
Can we let the impossible weight of our admiration for someone intimidate us as we see them fall before us? Why do we reach out so willingly to the anonymous while, with our dearest, our arms fail to uphold the the vision of intimacy held in our hearts?
Turning his attention elsewhere, Huckleberry left the scene at Ingersoll and Williamson where Beverly and Leon are finally having a moment of Confide-ence.
