slate blue afternoon

Reading Dave Eggers in the Heights Coffee shop. An ambience and mood that comes rarely now but used to settle around me all the time. A trio of older (50?) friends, 2 men one woman. Socially imperfect, one man with a nasal voice and irritating and childish way of phrasing things. They have nothing to say to each other for minutes at a time; hold their coffee silently, the air heavy and sticky between them, you can see the shadows of slow lumbering thoughts behind their foreheads but they can’t succumb completely. Must stay aware enough to join a conversation, should one pop through the surface of the swamp. There they sit, poised in a scene without lines. This is how people act; this is how they go out for coffee and what they order and where they sit. They are dressed for the part; their blocking learned but no one directs.

It’s a sad and dispiriting sort of feeling but comforting too. My childhood. Familiar. The 70s shag carpet and crap in the corner and a UHF tv with broken channel dial. Koko on the couch with us, our arms around her furry musty body, ribs rising and falling, and mom puttering in the kitchen or depressed upstairs.

I forgot life could be so nuanced and subtle. That an afternoon could take on a color so hard to mix and describe, a slate blue but not hard, lighter, yielding, more organic. A color that seeps, and stains the pores. It’s not happy, not even content. But I’m glad it exists, I feel God around me and understand that this feeling cannot be written or painted or sung and only God can mix this color. Nobody made this up. I guess I really am here.

and back a week: chemistry and disability

I’m reading now the book Mastery, by George Leonard. J gave it to me, recommended it as I browsed distractedly through the books on his shelf, waiting for him to come out of the bathroom or kitchen or somewhere else out of sight.

I went to book club yesterday at his place, hoping to meet new people and learn how to be friends with him again. Kind of sad and wistful and yearning for hugs and physical affection after missing Tom so much. Thinking it would be nice to stay the night but not wanting sex, just full-body snuggles. I missed J, I like his demeanor so much. He’s makes it so easy to hang out and for everyone to feel comfortable and cared about. He’s smart and low-key and interested in things without being competitive.

So I arrived half an hour late and found him in the foyer just as I entered. How did he know I was here? :-] But no, he’d coincidentally just come downstairs to get coffee and so we went to the bodega together. I said I need a hug and we kind of bumped our way through a quick one. Nice, clumsy, warm, all ok. Nervous smiles at touching after so long.

There’s a familiarity and rhythm to our interactions. I am conscious always of navigating his little awkardnesses and inabilities and making them ok and less noticeable. It’s like steering through the crowded sidewalks in Times Square, the little dance you do so you don’t bump into folks, the constant almost unconscious scanning and weaving and dodging and calibration of speed and tempo. So I walked the bodega with J, careful not to crowd him or trip him, cut him off by accident, force him into a narrow space. I carry myself with contrived nonchalance; not looking too much at him, no scrutiny to trigger self-consciousness. He surprised me by taking a parallel aisle, and our paths met at the corner of the store in the back, I almost crashed into him as we scanned the coffee on the shelf. Picked an Italian espresso and then onto the refrigerated section to get milk and half n’ half.

We’re always suggesting things apologetically, tentatively—we should get milk, right? Or maybe cream? whole? Skim? Jokes about triple skim soy organic lattes: if we try to please everyone we’ll have 6 quarts of milk before we’re done. His hands grab little pint cartons and bottles but the fit is bad; his hands are too large and can’t close far enough to get a good grip. Reminds me of those arcade games where you have to grab the prize with a robot claw. I pretend not to notice that he almost drops them.

Back we go to the book club. Nothing special, no great insights. Social. The women are nice but there is something bland there. Generic east side new york. We eat good food and talk some and let the asian woman dominate with her tales of cross-cultural misunderstandings. And then it’s time to go and I’m the last one in the bathroom so the last one out, and J asks me if I want to hang out and talk, and I do. So I do.

We sit and talk. And I bitch and piss and moan about my job, nearly in tears at times and I don’t know why, why I get so upset. So what if I have a boring job? What is wrong with me? Where is my sense of perspective? This made even more poignant as J tells his worries about surgery. Should he leave a note for everyone he loves, in case he dies? He is scared, even though it’s a very unlikely possibility. He tells me he’s in therapy now, I’m so glad to hear about it and think we both have a vocabulary to use, a way to know each other better now.

In between all this, J and I talk about death, a bit, and his family and the tragic history of everyone therein. His mother with schizophrenia, father with Parkinson’s, the holocaust history of their family, and relentless lack of support and love for him. He deserves love and support, and I just want to hug him. Finally I say so, and he says ‘ok!’ with a smile and stands up to collect. He’s so tall I barely make it to his chest but what is it about his body that is so welcoming and warm?

He asks if I have to get up early the next day. No I don’t—is he asking me to stay over? Yes. OK, I say, but I’m not really up for anything sexual. Ok? OK. And I’m not. I just want affection. After much preliminaries we’re finally in jammies lying in each others arms and—surprise--I am overwhelmed by desire. I wasn’t attracted to him in the living room, even when we were hugging. But there in bed lying with him my whole body just vibrated in concerted longing. It’s chemistry, but so specific to his body and to feeling it’s length next to me. My body likes his body. It’s that simple and my body purrs and writhes in response.

He kisses great, we kissed a long time and then I eventually moved on top of him to feel him fully and kiss him fully and I could have come just like that but when I was getting close he worked his way down between my legs and went down on me until I pretty well screamed. :-] He’s got his issues, still, with full-on sex so we didn’t attempt anything further. But he hugged and nibbled and caressed and sighed all night long and we ended up with a repeat performance in the morning. Unbelievable how much I want him when I’m next to him. This time he helped me help him out---got started with his hands and I finished with my mouth. He has a great cock, too, and wouldn’t it be great to get him feeling comfortable and responsive? It makes me smile to think of it.

We ate and had tea and he walked me to the subway and kissed goodbye and I promised to call him on Friday when the worst of his post-op should be done (he’ll be out of the hospital by then, at least, we hope). Jokes that he can die happy now; great line to use on chicks.

Starting at the End: the lovliness of imperfection

I am in the coffee shop again, the coffee shop I didn’t think I’d like but wouldntcha know it’s ok. Warm and comfortable with seats in the back that are sort of private but not too dark. I feel slowly more comfortable, slowly the kernel of anxiety that was gripping my chest has subsided. I love the guy at the counter making coffee. He’ s good looking, latino of some sort, wavy hair and solid body—not skinny not fat not short not tall not musclebound but solid. His face is authentic and not too friendly (not “sales”) but still open in its way. He seems like he’d be genuine to anyone it makes sense to be genuine to, in whatever way it makes sense to be. Genuinely polite and helpful to clients, friendly to those he knows, not overly so to those he doesn’t. Somehow he’s well calibrated, balanced, thoroughly natural and correct in his dealings. The most important thing about him: his hands. They curl and sort of claw up exactly like Jim’s do. I’m fascinated and curious. Does he have the same condition? There’s just the slightest heaviness in his lower legs—or am I imagining things? Jim wears braces, has no muscle left below the knees, uses his thighs to lift the weight of his feet and gets a goofy lopsided smile when my hugs push him off balance. . The barista’s body is completely different—kind of squarer and shorter. Meatier ☺ what a word but don’t know how else to describe it. He has more meat on his bones. Jim is long. A long tall drink of water, as they say. Flashback to last weekend ☺ his body makes me go rrrrroowwrrr! I can’t even understand it, it’s crazy but now just smiling at the memory of how soft his skin is and how enveloped I felt, held by him. I’ve never had such an instant, seemingly entirely physical response to anyone. And dammit I do love his body. I do like his pigeon chest and spindly crippled legs and his hands that won’t open up. I do love all of that. I love the feel of my chest against his. I don’t love his difficulties or suffering or inabilities but I can’t help but feel like he’s special. Not March of Dimes poster boy special. Really, actually special. The perfectly-formed pretty boys I’ve dated since are entirely predictable and molded. Their bodies have never failed them, refused them, never had to work hard, never had to be coaxed or negotiated with, hardly even noticed. Taken for granted. Everyone knows what a beautiful person looks like naked but no one can guess the idiosyncrasies of imperfection. And the lovers of the imperfect have a beautiful lovely secret knowledge that only affection and trust allows them. It’s special.
Back to the barkeep. I’ve been staring at him, trying to see how his hands work, figure out if he maybe just holds them that way as some sort of affectation. But I don’t think so. He gave me my change exactly like Jim would—between his the bent knuckles of his thumb and forefinger. Like he’s trying to make one of those hand-faces drawn on with lipstick, like –who?—was it carol channing? Seeing it makes me feel instantly warm toward him. He’s like jim. I recognize the gestures and feel at home. And feel like I share a secret with him. Feeling unexpectedly warm and “amused as a grandmother” or whatever that phrase is in the Tao Te Ching. A couple of women sitting next to me discuss the struggle to find regular exercise they enjoy. One suggested yoga to the other. The other said she’s not balanced or flexible. That’s why you DO it, says the other. Don’t worry, you just can’t be competitive about it. I won’t be competitive, the other said—just awkward. Like everything else”. They laughed and I smiled too, witnessing the resistance to beginners mind in action. The unwillingness to be a fool, which you must be if you ever want to learn anything. And the awkwardness that everyone everywhere feels about something.