fait avec amour
“There is a fatigue so great that the body cries, even in its sleep. There are times of complete frustration; there are daily small deaths.”
Dear Simone,
Relatability comes in many forms. How we relate to each other depends entirely upon the circumstance.
I feel that more things occur not from what is in front of us but from what is behind us.
I've had epic fallouts with many girlfriends. I take issue with some people, yet know that the matters presented are a projection of what I am working through within myself.
Abderrhamane told me about a common Arabic saying that the sky is beautiful even if it is empty of stars.
It is a metaphor for friendship, he said.
I asked him what went on in his head during the day, the sort of questions he considers.
He said that he empties his mind of all thoughts that cause him angst or anguish.
What about suffering, I'd asked.
Babe. He said. He smiled.
Things take time. One day, you will understand.
This is his response to a lot of things.
These answers without answering.
Vague is a position, I'm realizing.
Vague is a powerful stance.
Vague leaves no room for assumptions or expectations.
Vague leaves no room for false idols.
Sleep was fretful. I dreamt of swimming in a deep lake with lots of rocks where men sat with silver pails of bait and rods. They were fly fishing and I had to watch for the hooks as I paddled on my front. My eyes were above the water. I tasted salt on my lips.
I had his bag in one hand. His phone was in the leather pocket, and I kept my arm out of the water to protect his belongings. I grew tired very quickly and arrived at a flat grey stone that was partially submerged.
We were seated by a great cliff that looked over the sea. It was not so high. It was craggy and rough; I could not climb it with the purse. I thought to throw the purse up and then use both hands to pull myself upright and over the embankment. I stood on the edge and asked a man to throw the purse up to the shore. The man I asked looked like my dad. He would not help me. He shook his head—the Father.
I threw the bag three times, saving it from the mouth of the sea each time. It landed on the lip on the fourth throw, and I scurried up behind it.
How much can others assist us, Simone?
And how much of our process must be thrust upon us through the elements?
We watched a storm blow in at the beach yesterday afternoon. We walked in the sunshine with our towels and bags. He was in a sweater and ball cap and I in a silk dress and espadrilles. I sat in the sand, cross-legged on the white sheet, while he swam with his friends. They traded flippers and bodysurfed the waves.
I had to pull the blanket back three times to avoid the curtain of the tide. When the boys came out of the water, their lips were blue and skin pimply. Dark clouds cloaked the blue sky and I wrapped him in my purple and green Yak scarf.
We sat side by side and waited for the sun to set. We couldn't see it through the storm.
So much of what we know is concealed from us.
So much of what I feel is a result of my experiences.
So much of what I know is based on past inferences.
Fact and opinion are mixed up easily. When unchecked, it can guide the entire course of a life.
As I sat and watched the swimmers and surfers, one man on a light board jumped up and down to speed up as each wave passed. He used the water's momentum and his own force. He kept his gaze forward, his arms and legs spread wide. He was focused and fluid.
Other surfers moved with less confidence. They were not as skilled or agile. They were strong and yet unpracticed.
They lacked the stress necessary to stay upright amidst the unpredictability.
Relationships are built upon trust, and this takes time.
Relatability is constructed based on our past touchpoints, though we can recreate who we are and inform a new identity.
After I asked him what he thought about in the blank parts of the day, we put on Inside Out, and the movie's opening line is, 'do you ever look at someone and wonder what goes on in their head?'
Little signs from the universe, Simone.
That is how I take these synchronicities- as messages that I am in the correct place and moving with the flow.
Why must there be a violent rupture, a push, whenever I work through something, Simone?
Do I propel myself in an opposed direction from those I love to feel distinguished from the masses?
How is my past wed my future?
In the movie, Joy carries a bag of core memories on her back. The memories are shaped like hard, round marbles. They are heavy and awkward.
What would they be if I were to choose a handful of memories that define who I am today?
My query of thought process turned into a lengthy conversation about the backlog- the subconscious body- that lurks in the recesses of every thought and action.
We agreed that the backlog is far more impressionable than the consious mind.
At present, he is making pancakes and I am struggling to sit still and write. I am not a considered thinker, Simone.
I act on impulse.
My backlog lacks discipline.
I need to practice. I need to train.
Like that surfer coasting on the foam, I need to wait for the moment to strike.
Things take time.
The sky may be starless, and it is still beautiful.
I ache for the things I have yet to do and neglect the things that I've already done.
What is behind me is not nearly as exciting as what is to come!
I want to much and reflect too little.
How do I reconcile this, Simone?
And do I need to?
What I lack in friendship, I make up for with my imagination.
I hold myself accountable to fewer people, and I am rewarded with a deeper sense of intimacy and loyalty.
More layers are peeled back, like the heart of the artichoke.
With him, I am not myself. I am becoming someone else.
I prefer the person I am today over who I was yesterday.
He thinks he will not change, at the core of his being, over time.
It is the same question of essence and existence.
Do we repeat the same discourses with different characters as we blossom throughout our lives, Simone?
I am talking to myself through him; despite the appearance of dialogue, all things return to monologue.
How well do we understand each other?
Listen well, and you will learn.
I am learning to relate through sensation.
To stay in the moment by listening to batter sizzle in the pan and feel the heat of my computer under each fingertip. I can hear the man singing in the shower upstairs and the girls laughing as they skip to school. I can see him at the stove cutting bananas to flip into the batter.
I never made time for this before, Simone.
I was moving too fast.
Perhaps this is why things broke between friends. I was too quick to judge and sloppy in my delivery.
Or, things broke for me to see the bigger picture. Like a sandollar split in two with those little white doves on the inside.
Photo source.
