being able to read something and know whether the author is being purposefully abtruse — being able to be secure in knowing that one does not need to question one’s own bank of knowledge — that is a privilege
I’m sitting in class taking a final and don’t know a thing, and the people by me are having a jolly conversation: it’s JC and someone else. I showed up halfway in to the final. I walk out and leave. I’m now performing in a play with KS and there comes a scene in which we must run through the crowds and throw beads, but when they give us the packages of beads when we open them they scatter across the floor. We must separate the beads into two sections, one of multicolored round beads and one of more irregular shaped beads, and we take them in our fists and sprinkle them. I could not take all the beads in my fists so I just take a few; I notice another girl has managed to get them all. As we run through the audience I notice there are only 5 or so people there, with many empty fold up chairs. It’s the ending scene, so I run straight to the outdoors where I see AD. We talk against a fence, in which I tell her I would love if she came to the next play, and she says she is in too much pain to do so. I suggest spending other time together as well, and she still says she is in too much pain to do so. We continue talking, and she tells me I have a mustache, or some other strange feature. She has me get to the camera function on her iWatch, which is some off-brand, and takes a few pictures of me. When we look through them, they are strange — close up, far away, which odd snapchat-like drawings on them: a nose ring in one, odd background drawings in another. We walk towards her car, in which I get distracted by someone else talking to me (reminiscent of TF and FG earlier yesterday). Somehow a party begins, and I get sucked into that while AD walks away — the party installed a huge ice cream machine, pushing her car off the side of the road and into the forest behind it. It’s a hill, and her car slides down (as well as the ice cream machine), before it’s finally used as a stop halfway down the hill for the huge ice cream building. No one notices but me, and I run there to help. When I look at the car it’s really a large wire tube filled with snow; it’s still the car though. I wake up.
JS is sitting on the steps outside my dorm when I walk out. I see him out of the corner of my eye: a solid pink sweatshirt and a penny board. We throw each other an obligatory wave and head nod.
Vignettes of the weddings I would have had with each of my past somethings:
At JKm and I’s wedding, I would have fake-fought to wear something bright — a sunshine yellow sundress. He would protest enough over me embarrassing him in front of his family that I would pick out something white. Something innocent. I would have struggled to mingle with charming, docile small talk — or who knows? Maybe I would have been good at it by then. I would have hovered with his grandparents in the corner, clutching to some conversation about contemporary art.
Barefoot, wearing some sort of wildly appropriated sari for JS. It would have been in India, or Puerto Rico, or Africa — anywhere but here. His friends would be hugging and kissing and my friends from back home would be uncomfortable. We would smoke weed. We would sit cross-legged on the floor.
WB and I would be back home, on the beach, with everyone from high school, or come to think of it, maybe no one from high school. I don’t know who I would be. I was in such a transition period during the period of us: I realize that now. Perhaps he was also, or perhaps I dragged him into mine. Maybe I would watch him joke around with his white, wholesome, cool church community, or maybe not at all. We were so different than we were two years ago; was the feeling the same? This I know, from the start until now: at the end of the day, we would have sat in silence, watching the sunset.
I can’t yet tell what HJ and I will be, except that I think I feel very much myself. I wonder how the legions of radical feminists can each individually choose to make that nod to gender roles and still make grand statements about the collective push against them. I couldn’t wear a white dress now, I think, that low bow to tradition.
I’d be down for a brightly color-blocked skirt, I think.
On the walk here, there were pink flowers covering the floor. They look better there, I think, than they do in the tree: a soft sea in grey light below leaves.