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I had this beautiful moment at the Whole Foods on Denny two days ago. Bill and I delivered many cabinets in the rain and both wanted soup. He bought a thin orange soup. The thickest soup they had appeared to be black bean, so, the consistency of soups being very important to me, I got that one. Didn't disappoint. In the checkout line I noticed, then watched steadily the bagger working at the next line until he suddenly jerked his head up as though at a command and looked straight into my face. I have grown up enough to know that there were two black threads then spoolled out between us, one going each way. Some people you're roped to, to others there's never more than a filament. There's no way to tell which until it has happened. We finished buying our soup from "Leek" who turned out to be the much less vegetable "Lee K" and went to the cafe to eat. We finished and left the store. I trailed behind just keeping my eyes open. Turning my head. Don't dismiss it! It did happen. I had only to look for a few seconds as we passed the checkout lines; the black thread was taut, and I found myself walking the circumference of a large circle, looking through the crowd over my left shoulder, with him walking opposite me on the same circumference, looking over his left shoulder, with all the milling people between. How casual. It did happen. I should stop throwing my heart like an ax.
Lately, my auxiliary attention is occupied by an advertisement. I found it on the computer. In it, a young man is standing in front of an opera house at twilight. Here it is. There goes the ax again. Let's turn upon him the critical eye. He doesn't really seem to know the picture is being taken, or else he has managed the rare and beautiful unselfconsciousness that can make photographs so fascinating. Look at his centurion hair. It is unstylish but not unbecoming. There is a small sideburn creeping in front of his right ear. The shirt is too big--but not really. It fits at the shoulders but bags at the waist, which is not helped by his slight hunch. It seems not to be the hunch of a tall person, but rather one of emotional fatigue. He has been winnowing the pith for a long time now. His stance is only a peel, it can hardly hide anything anymore. And yet--the sideburn, his cheekbones--I still want to give myself over to his reckless derision. We'd sleep on the ground until the satellites all fell. I would warm his thin wrists on my neck. This will satisfy me; it must. I don't think this man will give me anything else, since he has long ago become resigned to the knowledge that, whatever he is looking for, it is probably not in the air above his head and to the left.
Lately, my auxiliary attention is occupied by an advertisement. I found it on the computer. In it, a young man is standing in front of an opera house at twilight. Here it is. There goes the ax again. Let's turn upon him the critical eye. He doesn't really seem to know the picture is being taken, or else he has managed the rare and beautiful unselfconsciousness that can make photographs so fascinating. Look at his centurion hair. It is unstylish but not unbecoming. There is a small sideburn creeping in front of his right ear. The shirt is too big--but not really. It fits at the shoulders but bags at the waist, which is not helped by his slight hunch. It seems not to be the hunch of a tall person, but rather one of emotional fatigue. He has been winnowing the pith for a long time now. His stance is only a peel, it can hardly hide anything anymore. And yet--the sideburn, his cheekbones--I still want to give myself over to his reckless derision. We'd sleep on the ground until the satellites all fell. I would warm his thin wrists on my neck. This will satisfy me; it must. I don't think this man will give me anything else, since he has long ago become resigned to the knowledge that, whatever he is looking for, it is probably not in the air above his head and to the left.
