June 2007

I’ve been thinking…

Just whose hands are these anyway…

mine or His?

Is there a difference?

I’m planting some love,
She just can’t cope.

I’ll be your strength,
He’ll be your hope.
Joy Cometh!

Is there such a word? Because you know I’m not opposed to making one up.

It’s the only way I know to explain it. Like I’m walking around today looking like me, sounding like me, going through the motions of me and yet…Everything looks and sounds a little odd.

I struck up a conversation with him, ==>> right over there, as I often do with people in this coffee shop. It began ok but after a while became a little weird and surreal as if someone turned the volume of our dialog way down. As he continued on with his monologue about his Life (happens to me all the time, I make a great PollyAnna), I wasn’t hearing him as much as I was completely keyed into his body language and facial expressions and something else that he was exuding, something unfamiliar to me. As I tried to read him and be in the moment…it hit me like a sopping wet sponge. FUTILITY. Loud and in bold letters. I didn’t recognize it at first, it’s so foreign to my thinking (Just call me Polly, I’ve managed to drop the Anna).

I’m trying to just ignore it now and focus instead on our intermittent conversation. (later) Ok, he’s not hearing me at all. Now the “love” I’m supposed to feel for this guy is on it’s hands and knees sneaking toward the door, great…thanks. Suddenly Self feels the need to move or go wash my hands so this stuff doesn’t get on me. (ok, maybe you should just call me Gwen and forget Polly and Anna)

What is Futility really about anyway and is it a mind over matter issue? Because if it is, someone should tell him. He’s still sitting right next to me, the Futility in his mind is visible now. Thick streams of gray hopelessness are running down his legs. I try not to stare at it and instead I concentrate on his mouth forming words I can’t hear. I’m not staring but I know they’re there…thick gray pools at his feet like some kind of heavy glue. It’s making the soles of my running shoes stick to the floor. I’ve got to get out of here.