Shifty Knots
IDLORE
I’ve been thinking about Tone constantly since we finally talked about gender after yesterday’s weaving class. Some sort of mutual desire for deeper than usual conversation compelled me to ask them about it. The feelings, more so than the words seem to be lingering today, like an incessant riddle that won’t answer itself but unfolds more questions the longer it’s thought about.
I had always been attracted to females and found Tone to be a particularly attractive male. “I don’t consider myself male,” they told me. “What do you consider yourself?” I asked. “Non-binary, trans, queer…” Somehow I found myself fantasizing about what it would be like, exploring a type of body I wasn’t used to. They had been telling me about the type of plaster the Greeks used to build their columns. Not that I am particularly interested in the Parthenon but I loved watching the way their eyes lit up while they talked with their hands. It’s like they want to be there, holding the pillars up, commenting on whether or not they’re perfectly level.
I suppose I feel guilty, not to anyone in particular, just to myself for letting go of the life I was living. I’d been with Jean for a few years. Even though we both were providing helping hands to one another, to me that felt like love. But sure enough, another guy came along and the help was no longer needed. For her, something better than me came with it: Acceptance. Jean and her new boyfriend didn’t have to deal with any of the tolerating that she and I did for each other.
*
I remember finding Jean outside of The Cavern, smoking a cigarette while sitting on the ground wearing a black skirt and a black jacket and enough silver on her tits that I couldn’t help but notice. It was like a photograph in a bathroom somewhere, a black and white in a magazine, a somehow awakened dream of an image I was now seeing. This chick could be anyone, a thousand times, a repetition of all the women I’ve ever fallen for, and yet I’m still so attracted. There’s something about her apathy, her worn experience; the way she’s looking away from the people around her and into the distance tells me she wants something more than just attention.
After I saw Jean, I pulled out a lighter and asked her if I could bum a cigarette. She took her attention off the distant thoughts and looked at me, eyes behind black liner. “Sure,” she said, reaching into the purse sitting next to her on the sidewalk. She held one up for me to grab out of the box, and as I did so, she scooted over about a foot. Somehow this gesture said a lot about her personality. There weren’t any seats obviously on the sidewalk, no one was within ten feet of us, yet she moved over as if a spot existed for me now that wasn’t there before. I went along with this and sat down to look into the same direction she was, puffing the first drags while the length of the cigarette reminded me of the beginning of time, when everything had just started and no one really knew what was coming.
“What do you think the earth was like before humans?” I asked without taking my eyes off the distant stoplights, streetlights and passersby. She looked at me again. Her plump lips are probably quiet until she gets going. Maybe this wasn’t the best question, but I wanted to know how she thinks. This picture from a magazine, a photograph I would have whacked off to if I were younger, what does she think about the world? “Just a bunch of dinosaurs and shit doing the same things we do.” When she said this, I could feel the dirt beneath the road, the people as animals, the streetlights as fruit-bearing trees. Me and her, some pigeons of the past chirping to one another occasionally.
My name’s Ralph, I told her. Ha, she said. Not Hi, but Ha. Okay, she said next, my name is Jean. “Thanks for the cigarette,” I said. Nothing. I asked if she was going into The Cavern. She looked behind me, towards the entrance of the bar, “It’s probably better that I don’t.” I imagined some shitty date or friend she came with, but I didn't mention anything. I’d been single for pretty much two years at that point and did not want to talk about other people’s relationships. To my surprise she invited me to go for a walk, an anti-social endeavor that sounded perfect for an evening like this. That’s when I got to know Jean, a chain-smoking record store employee trying to move out of her boyfriend’s place. In a matter of minutes, we got to a park. For whatever reason, she kissed me, gave me her number, and left.
As I walked home, I thought about my lease that was running up soon. I’d been making just enough money to afford a tiny apartment for almost a year. I fantasized about getting a bigger apartment with Jean. I kept thinking about that kiss right on the lips, her lipstick meeting the skin between my stubble. She even closed her eyes, like she was making a wish for a better life, one that might not be all too different, but a better version with each other in it seemed like an achievable goal. Jean felt like a roller coaster of change, a way out of the monotony, and into the unknown. I couldn’t stop thinking of fantasies inside of closed doors, the privacy of a shared home, the way she doesn’t say much.
*
Honestly, I took this class just needing something to get my mind off Jean. It’s not like I’m even all that interested in weaving, either. I was worried it might make me obsess even more, that the sheer amount of boredom would get me drifting between our fights and our makeup sex. Instead, it became like a pool in my inner world while my mind stayed preoccupied on weaving the strings.
The repetitious patterns are at least a healthy distraction. I can picture Jean as this dark blue string, wrapping itself around the medium brown loom like she would on a tipsy tired evening of crawling into bed with me. I could tie the knot quickly, like the few times she excitedly grabbed me. I could maneuver it slowly, like those contemplative nights when I could tell she had other people on her mind, testing the qualities of me. The strings combined my fantasies with an art form, albeit messy and inconsistent.
The teacher tells us to connect our emotions within our tapestries. He said this art is much more fulfilling if one really channels their emotional energy through their hands, creating from a heart-filled place, making wonder and joy come alive in the patterns of your choosing. He made it sound like one could weave their entire life into a tapestry, if they really took the time to concentrate on every knot in some connective way of spiritual concentration. In certain ways it seemed like he knew I was completely lost in thought. Maybe this guy knows about meridians and shit and can tell me how mine are imbalanced or something.
I thought about trying to catch a glance at Tone without them noticing. They’re sitting on my right. I intentionally sat where there were two empty seats, and sure enough they took the other one. I think that’s a sign they at least don’t hate me. I’ve been too preoccupied to notice if they’ve even looked at me at all since they got here. When I sneak a glance sideways, they catch it. I felt like a chocolate chip in a microwave. They smiled. I smirked.
Suddenly, the strings stopped moving and my fantasies about having sex with Jean became replaced with Tone. My arms felt like noodles and molasses trying to do this technique we’re supposed to have under our belts. How does it go again? Over, then under? Oh, wow. The steady string that was me is now Tone and this slow moving string wrapping around it is now my head kissing from their clavicle to their earlobe. The image disappears as I pull the string tighter, and I see a beautiful knot. It stands out to me, this single knot, among hundreds. This one knot looks entirely different than all of the rest. I look again at Tone who’s moving light years faster than me. The knot of me kissing them fades into the fabric. It’s not looking so bad after all.
*
Soon after moving into a decent apartment with Jean, I remember one night realizing how disconnected we were. We didn’t seem to know each other very well. It was like she was still looking into the distance from the sidewalk and all I could see was the streetlights. I felt like she saw the world completely differently than me. I was curious, intrigued, and terrified.
As difficult as it was to get to know her, I tried to make small talk so that she would at least feel comfortable around me. Her airy distaste for conversations was a hard wall to get through. I tried for example asking Jean if she meets anyone cool at work. She told me yeah, but why would she want to talk about that with me? I don’t know, I said. I don’t really meet anyone interesting at the car dealership. She’s not surprised. You don’t want to tell me about anyone? No. I asked her if she would take over the record shop if the old guy handed her the keys. She said she’s already planning on it. How long do you think he’s going to stick around? I don’t know, she said. It doesn’t really matter, he just smokes in the back all day long anyways.
That same night, I asked her if she wanted to go to the Cavern with me. “Let me think about it,” she said and went out for a smoke. “I don’t know,” she came back in with a sigh. “I don’t really feel like socializing.” I remember the way she looked at me when she said that. I think this was one of those nights that she could tell I was trying to show some interest in her beyond just sex. She had this sort of curious, skeptical look towards me when she asked, “Do you want to just stay here and watch a movie?” Of course she knew I would, but I was starting to feel sad that she was so uninterested in talking to me. I said sure, and waited for her to pick something for us to watch.
Jean pushed herself into me while the movie played. She began breathing louder and spreading her hips in an inviting way. I couldn’t tell if it was for me, the movie or the fantasy in her head. “Why does your name have to be Ralph?” She said, “Can I please call you something different?” And with that, I knew she was talking to me. Her slow, heavy movements were opening themselves in the way she knew how. I breathed in the smell of her hair. “You can call me anything you like,” I said. “Hmm…” as she pressed the back of her head on my throat. She said, N.E. then she said words like, ‘near everything,’ ‘new ego,’ and ‘not evil.’ Not. Evil. That was it: Naughtyville. I slid my arm underneath her back so I could squeeze both of her nipples at the same time. “You can call me N.E. and welcome to Naughtyville,” I said before she turned over.
*
In a matter of months, I remember waiting for Jean to come home from work in our new apartment. I fell into the trance of the oven clock; with those two dots ticking. 9:05. I went to the fridge thinking, “How many of us are hungry when she’s not even home yet and I’m too worried about what I’m going to say to have any appetite at all? That makes zero.” I stared at the remaining food in the fridge anyways until closing the door. 9:07. There were dishes on the counter; not dirty, but also not clean.
*
It’s like every time I am working on the left side of this tapestry I go into these emotional memories of being in love with Jean and the knots get slower, more involved, less structured. I keep shaking her out of my mind when I get towards the right side… Thinking about Tone, this present reality, being in class on this stool. That’s when I pick up on the technique again and the knots go faster and the pattern cleans itself up. As I finish the row, I stop and take a look.
“Do you want a few tips?” Tone started that conversation with me after class. I guess they had noticed my loose ends and shifty knots. I said yes and really have no idea how the conversation drifted so far into talking about the types of plaster the Greeks would use to build with. I thought about asking them out for a drink and instinctively put my hand in my pocket and felt my wallet wasn’t there; I’d left it in the car during class. What if it wasn’t about money or buying them a drink? I thought. What if all I had was me?
*
I accepted Tone’s invitation to keep the conversation going at their place. I followed them to their bus that they live in on a property away from the busy city. It took 35 minutes to get there, behind an unlocked gate, down a dirt road, until I saw a school bus parked next to a large tree. How would it feel to cuddle up close to this person? Do they feel serious about me? I hope we can start out just as friends. I really don’t know what I’m doing here. I looked up a few articles about being queer but they seemed much more flamboyant than this.
Once we got out of our cars Tone opened their arms up for a hug. Wow, that feels really nice… I felt so flustered, not wanting to blush, but not feeling like I had to show any part of myself that wasn’t natural. It was an odd sense of awkwardness, and Tone broke the ice by offering some tea and showed me the table and chairs on the other side of the bus. We went over and sat down facing towards a few garden beds with tall salad-looking plants, piles of dirt, and three wooden pallets put together in the shape of a cube with an open face. “Yeah, been working on that compost pile for months,” Tone said. “What would you prefer, camomile and lavender or lemon and ginger?” “I’ll let you decide,” I said.
It seemed like I was breathing deeper than usual. The freshness of the air with the comfort of Tone’s presence, I wasn’t used to. It would be a shitty move to smoke a cigarette but it would sure take the edge off. “Here, try this one.” I tasted a sip of flowery calmness that the cigarette wanted to give me. I asked if it was the lavender camomile and they said yes, smiling. “Do you like it?” Yes. They sat next to me and sipped their own cup. A wooden sign painted, “REJUVENATE” leaned against a nearby bush. Tone gave a sigh. I continuously thought that my breathing was slower and deeper than usual. It made it difficult for me to talk. I felt stuck between not knowing what to say and simply wanting to be. I didn’t know how Tone would remain interested in me. “Thank you for having me over,” I suggested in case they might gain a liking for me being there. “Of course, and you’re welcome here anytime,” they said, reading my thoughts. “Do you smoke?” They asked, getting up from the table. “Occasionally,” I said.
I became really uncertain what we would talk about. I realized I had nothing to say. I felt again like I did with women that I had nothing to offer. I felt like lost dreams and broken promises. Tone symbolized freedom, specifically being freed from my mind. What if I was gay? Or queer? I didn’t know how much that mattered or not. It just seemed like Tone had a lot of answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask.
*
“Damn, N.E.” Jean told me. “Why can’t I find a boyfriend with a steady job?” I told her I was sorry, and that I loved being with her. I held her hips and she grew quiet. We stared into each other’s eyes. There’s a familiarity with us. Another cosmic love story. We had many moments like this, of our characters moving through time together. Minimal words, we were glad we had each other.
She started rolling away from me more after that. I asked her about it anyway. “Nothing’s up, I just like having space when I sleep.” I couldn’t help but feel desperate. Not much I did seemed to change the situation. It made sense on some level. But I kept feeling like I had shown a sense of failure. I didn’t like getting so caught up thinking about these things. She also clearly didn’t like talking about it.
*
“Do you want to share contact?” Tone asked me, seemingly out of the blue. We had shared a rolled cigarette that was mixed with a few other herbs I didn’t know were possible to smoke. My constant mind chatter rambled on, but about more meaningful wonders. Well, I couldn’t tell if it was meaningful. I was thinking about the birds and the bits of nature they find to make their nests. I imagined one bird coming home to another with a particularly impressive branch. Normally a question like Tone’s would have seemed weird, but the thoughts of the birds made it seem to make perfect sense. Share contact. “Yeah, I mean. What did you have in mind?”
And with that, Tone took my hand and led me on a walk away from the bus and towards the trees whose trunks disappeared until we climbed down a hill and there was sure enough a stream with a pebble stone beach that looked perfect sitting, or lying down. I don’t recall if we talked out loud or if only our spirits guided us to that spot, in active conversation about who we are, where we’ve been, and the way neither of us could know what would happen from this point on.
How does one melt more? I suppose it’s impossible. One would simply boil. I guess melting more would entail melting more completely. When the body relaxes, it notices the specific parts that aren’t relaxed. The juxtaposition awakens the mind to deepen further into relaxation. When one develops awareness of this experience, one can actually grasp through the technology of the mind the areas in which one is holding on both physically and intellectually.
*
“I don’t much like going out,” Jean suggested, these past memories so readily available to me as if time were a nonlinear force of reality. “But let’s go out to The Cavern this weekend.” She wore the same skirt she met me in, and I wore the same collared shirt. We stood together in the packed bar, getting closer in the night, her chest to mine while the music played. It felt bittersweet, a joy that could only be accompanied by a sorrow for a night like this that could possibly never happen again. We danced within a whirlwind of chaotic strangers and good music. That’s how we slept that night, chest to chest while the world swirled around us.
*
Tone took my hand and brought us to the flat spot next to the stream. They sat down and I stared as they stretched out their long legs, propping themself up with strong, lean triceps. They looked at me inquisitively. I felt a rush of excitement and possibilities. No one was here to judge, and I wanted nothing more than to escape my sorrows with the help of this person. Why was I so attracted to them? It didn’t matter. Tone was an open invitation for me to try something different, to be more attracted to the inside of someone, and on top of that, to explore other parts of myself that I hadn’t discovered before.
I had always been attracted to females and found Tone to be a particularly attractive male. “I don’t consider myself male,” they told me. “What do you consider yourself?” I asked. “Non-binary, trans, queer…” Somehow I found myself fantasizing about what it would be like, exploring a type of body I wasn’t used to. They had been telling me about the type of plaster the Greeks used to build their columns. Not that I am particularly interested in the Parthenon but I loved watching the way their eyes lit up while they talked with their hands. It’s like they want to be there, holding the pillars up, commenting on whether or not they’re perfectly level.
I suppose I feel guilty, not to anyone in particular, just to myself for letting go of the life I was living. I’d been with Jean for a few years. Even though we both were providing helping hands to one another, to me that felt like love. But sure enough, another guy came along and the help was no longer needed. For her, something better than me came with it: Acceptance. Jean and her new boyfriend didn’t have to deal with any of the tolerating that she and I did for each other.
*
I remember finding Jean outside of The Cavern, smoking a cigarette while sitting on the ground wearing a black skirt and a black jacket and enough silver on her tits that I couldn’t help but notice. It was like a photograph in a bathroom somewhere, a black and white in a magazine, a somehow awakened dream of an image I was now seeing. This chick could be anyone, a thousand times, a repetition of all the women I’ve ever fallen for, and yet I’m still so attracted. There’s something about her apathy, her worn experience; the way she’s looking away from the people around her and into the distance tells me she wants something more than just attention.
After I saw Jean, I pulled out a lighter and asked her if I could bum a cigarette. She took her attention off the distant thoughts and looked at me, eyes behind black liner. “Sure,” she said, reaching into the purse sitting next to her on the sidewalk. She held one up for me to grab out of the box, and as I did so, she scooted over about a foot. Somehow this gesture said a lot about her personality. There weren’t any seats obviously on the sidewalk, no one was within ten feet of us, yet she moved over as if a spot existed for me now that wasn’t there before. I went along with this and sat down to look into the same direction she was, puffing the first drags while the length of the cigarette reminded me of the beginning of time, when everything had just started and no one really knew what was coming.
“What do you think the earth was like before humans?” I asked without taking my eyes off the distant stoplights, streetlights and passersby. She looked at me again. Her plump lips are probably quiet until she gets going. Maybe this wasn’t the best question, but I wanted to know how she thinks. This picture from a magazine, a photograph I would have whacked off to if I were younger, what does she think about the world? “Just a bunch of dinosaurs and shit doing the same things we do.” When she said this, I could feel the dirt beneath the road, the people as animals, the streetlights as fruit-bearing trees. Me and her, some pigeons of the past chirping to one another occasionally.
My name’s Ralph, I told her. Ha, she said. Not Hi, but Ha. Okay, she said next, my name is Jean. “Thanks for the cigarette,” I said. Nothing. I asked if she was going into The Cavern. She looked behind me, towards the entrance of the bar, “It’s probably better that I don’t.” I imagined some shitty date or friend she came with, but I didn't mention anything. I’d been single for pretty much two years at that point and did not want to talk about other people’s relationships. To my surprise she invited me to go for a walk, an anti-social endeavor that sounded perfect for an evening like this. That’s when I got to know Jean, a chain-smoking record store employee trying to move out of her boyfriend’s place. In a matter of minutes, we got to a park. For whatever reason, she kissed me, gave me her number, and left.
As I walked home, I thought about my lease that was running up soon. I’d been making just enough money to afford a tiny apartment for almost a year. I fantasized about getting a bigger apartment with Jean. I kept thinking about that kiss right on the lips, her lipstick meeting the skin between my stubble. She even closed her eyes, like she was making a wish for a better life, one that might not be all too different, but a better version with each other in it seemed like an achievable goal. Jean felt like a roller coaster of change, a way out of the monotony, and into the unknown. I couldn’t stop thinking of fantasies inside of closed doors, the privacy of a shared home, the way she doesn’t say much.
*
Honestly, I took this class just needing something to get my mind off Jean. It’s not like I’m even all that interested in weaving, either. I was worried it might make me obsess even more, that the sheer amount of boredom would get me drifting between our fights and our makeup sex. Instead, it became like a pool in my inner world while my mind stayed preoccupied on weaving the strings.
The repetitious patterns are at least a healthy distraction. I can picture Jean as this dark blue string, wrapping itself around the medium brown loom like she would on a tipsy tired evening of crawling into bed with me. I could tie the knot quickly, like the few times she excitedly grabbed me. I could maneuver it slowly, like those contemplative nights when I could tell she had other people on her mind, testing the qualities of me. The strings combined my fantasies with an art form, albeit messy and inconsistent.
The teacher tells us to connect our emotions within our tapestries. He said this art is much more fulfilling if one really channels their emotional energy through their hands, creating from a heart-filled place, making wonder and joy come alive in the patterns of your choosing. He made it sound like one could weave their entire life into a tapestry, if they really took the time to concentrate on every knot in some connective way of spiritual concentration. In certain ways it seemed like he knew I was completely lost in thought. Maybe this guy knows about meridians and shit and can tell me how mine are imbalanced or something.
I thought about trying to catch a glance at Tone without them noticing. They’re sitting on my right. I intentionally sat where there were two empty seats, and sure enough they took the other one. I think that’s a sign they at least don’t hate me. I’ve been too preoccupied to notice if they’ve even looked at me at all since they got here. When I sneak a glance sideways, they catch it. I felt like a chocolate chip in a microwave. They smiled. I smirked.
Suddenly, the strings stopped moving and my fantasies about having sex with Jean became replaced with Tone. My arms felt like noodles and molasses trying to do this technique we’re supposed to have under our belts. How does it go again? Over, then under? Oh, wow. The steady string that was me is now Tone and this slow moving string wrapping around it is now my head kissing from their clavicle to their earlobe. The image disappears as I pull the string tighter, and I see a beautiful knot. It stands out to me, this single knot, among hundreds. This one knot looks entirely different than all of the rest. I look again at Tone who’s moving light years faster than me. The knot of me kissing them fades into the fabric. It’s not looking so bad after all.
*
Soon after moving into a decent apartment with Jean, I remember one night realizing how disconnected we were. We didn’t seem to know each other very well. It was like she was still looking into the distance from the sidewalk and all I could see was the streetlights. I felt like she saw the world completely differently than me. I was curious, intrigued, and terrified.
As difficult as it was to get to know her, I tried to make small talk so that she would at least feel comfortable around me. Her airy distaste for conversations was a hard wall to get through. I tried for example asking Jean if she meets anyone cool at work. She told me yeah, but why would she want to talk about that with me? I don’t know, I said. I don’t really meet anyone interesting at the car dealership. She’s not surprised. You don’t want to tell me about anyone? No. I asked her if she would take over the record shop if the old guy handed her the keys. She said she’s already planning on it. How long do you think he’s going to stick around? I don’t know, she said. It doesn’t really matter, he just smokes in the back all day long anyways.
That same night, I asked her if she wanted to go to the Cavern with me. “Let me think about it,” she said and went out for a smoke. “I don’t know,” she came back in with a sigh. “I don’t really feel like socializing.” I remember the way she looked at me when she said that. I think this was one of those nights that she could tell I was trying to show some interest in her beyond just sex. She had this sort of curious, skeptical look towards me when she asked, “Do you want to just stay here and watch a movie?” Of course she knew I would, but I was starting to feel sad that she was so uninterested in talking to me. I said sure, and waited for her to pick something for us to watch.
Jean pushed herself into me while the movie played. She began breathing louder and spreading her hips in an inviting way. I couldn’t tell if it was for me, the movie or the fantasy in her head. “Why does your name have to be Ralph?” She said, “Can I please call you something different?” And with that, I knew she was talking to me. Her slow, heavy movements were opening themselves in the way she knew how. I breathed in the smell of her hair. “You can call me anything you like,” I said. “Hmm…” as she pressed the back of her head on my throat. She said, N.E. then she said words like, ‘near everything,’ ‘new ego,’ and ‘not evil.’ Not. Evil. That was it: Naughtyville. I slid my arm underneath her back so I could squeeze both of her nipples at the same time. “You can call me N.E. and welcome to Naughtyville,” I said before she turned over.
*
In a matter of months, I remember waiting for Jean to come home from work in our new apartment. I fell into the trance of the oven clock; with those two dots ticking. 9:05. I went to the fridge thinking, “How many of us are hungry when she’s not even home yet and I’m too worried about what I’m going to say to have any appetite at all? That makes zero.” I stared at the remaining food in the fridge anyways until closing the door. 9:07. There were dishes on the counter; not dirty, but also not clean.
*
It’s like every time I am working on the left side of this tapestry I go into these emotional memories of being in love with Jean and the knots get slower, more involved, less structured. I keep shaking her out of my mind when I get towards the right side… Thinking about Tone, this present reality, being in class on this stool. That’s when I pick up on the technique again and the knots go faster and the pattern cleans itself up. As I finish the row, I stop and take a look.
“Do you want a few tips?” Tone started that conversation with me after class. I guess they had noticed my loose ends and shifty knots. I said yes and really have no idea how the conversation drifted so far into talking about the types of plaster the Greeks would use to build with. I thought about asking them out for a drink and instinctively put my hand in my pocket and felt my wallet wasn’t there; I’d left it in the car during class. What if it wasn’t about money or buying them a drink? I thought. What if all I had was me?
*
I accepted Tone’s invitation to keep the conversation going at their place. I followed them to their bus that they live in on a property away from the busy city. It took 35 minutes to get there, behind an unlocked gate, down a dirt road, until I saw a school bus parked next to a large tree. How would it feel to cuddle up close to this person? Do they feel serious about me? I hope we can start out just as friends. I really don’t know what I’m doing here. I looked up a few articles about being queer but they seemed much more flamboyant than this.
Once we got out of our cars Tone opened their arms up for a hug. Wow, that feels really nice… I felt so flustered, not wanting to blush, but not feeling like I had to show any part of myself that wasn’t natural. It was an odd sense of awkwardness, and Tone broke the ice by offering some tea and showed me the table and chairs on the other side of the bus. We went over and sat down facing towards a few garden beds with tall salad-looking plants, piles of dirt, and three wooden pallets put together in the shape of a cube with an open face. “Yeah, been working on that compost pile for months,” Tone said. “What would you prefer, camomile and lavender or lemon and ginger?” “I’ll let you decide,” I said.
It seemed like I was breathing deeper than usual. The freshness of the air with the comfort of Tone’s presence, I wasn’t used to. It would be a shitty move to smoke a cigarette but it would sure take the edge off. “Here, try this one.” I tasted a sip of flowery calmness that the cigarette wanted to give me. I asked if it was the lavender camomile and they said yes, smiling. “Do you like it?” Yes. They sat next to me and sipped their own cup. A wooden sign painted, “REJUVENATE” leaned against a nearby bush. Tone gave a sigh. I continuously thought that my breathing was slower and deeper than usual. It made it difficult for me to talk. I felt stuck between not knowing what to say and simply wanting to be. I didn’t know how Tone would remain interested in me. “Thank you for having me over,” I suggested in case they might gain a liking for me being there. “Of course, and you’re welcome here anytime,” they said, reading my thoughts. “Do you smoke?” They asked, getting up from the table. “Occasionally,” I said.
I became really uncertain what we would talk about. I realized I had nothing to say. I felt again like I did with women that I had nothing to offer. I felt like lost dreams and broken promises. Tone symbolized freedom, specifically being freed from my mind. What if I was gay? Or queer? I didn’t know how much that mattered or not. It just seemed like Tone had a lot of answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask.
*
“Damn, N.E.” Jean told me. “Why can’t I find a boyfriend with a steady job?” I told her I was sorry, and that I loved being with her. I held her hips and she grew quiet. We stared into each other’s eyes. There’s a familiarity with us. Another cosmic love story. We had many moments like this, of our characters moving through time together. Minimal words, we were glad we had each other.
She started rolling away from me more after that. I asked her about it anyway. “Nothing’s up, I just like having space when I sleep.” I couldn’t help but feel desperate. Not much I did seemed to change the situation. It made sense on some level. But I kept feeling like I had shown a sense of failure. I didn’t like getting so caught up thinking about these things. She also clearly didn’t like talking about it.
*
“Do you want to share contact?” Tone asked me, seemingly out of the blue. We had shared a rolled cigarette that was mixed with a few other herbs I didn’t know were possible to smoke. My constant mind chatter rambled on, but about more meaningful wonders. Well, I couldn’t tell if it was meaningful. I was thinking about the birds and the bits of nature they find to make their nests. I imagined one bird coming home to another with a particularly impressive branch. Normally a question like Tone’s would have seemed weird, but the thoughts of the birds made it seem to make perfect sense. Share contact. “Yeah, I mean. What did you have in mind?”
And with that, Tone took my hand and led me on a walk away from the bus and towards the trees whose trunks disappeared until we climbed down a hill and there was sure enough a stream with a pebble stone beach that looked perfect sitting, or lying down. I don’t recall if we talked out loud or if only our spirits guided us to that spot, in active conversation about who we are, where we’ve been, and the way neither of us could know what would happen from this point on.
How does one melt more? I suppose it’s impossible. One would simply boil. I guess melting more would entail melting more completely. When the body relaxes, it notices the specific parts that aren’t relaxed. The juxtaposition awakens the mind to deepen further into relaxation. When one develops awareness of this experience, one can actually grasp through the technology of the mind the areas in which one is holding on both physically and intellectually.
*
“I don’t much like going out,” Jean suggested, these past memories so readily available to me as if time were a nonlinear force of reality. “But let’s go out to The Cavern this weekend.” She wore the same skirt she met me in, and I wore the same collared shirt. We stood together in the packed bar, getting closer in the night, her chest to mine while the music played. It felt bittersweet, a joy that could only be accompanied by a sorrow for a night like this that could possibly never happen again. We danced within a whirlwind of chaotic strangers and good music. That’s how we slept that night, chest to chest while the world swirled around us.
*
Tone took my hand and brought us to the flat spot next to the stream. They sat down and I stared as they stretched out their long legs, propping themself up with strong, lean triceps. They looked at me inquisitively. I felt a rush of excitement and possibilities. No one was here to judge, and I wanted nothing more than to escape my sorrows with the help of this person. Why was I so attracted to them? It didn’t matter. Tone was an open invitation for me to try something different, to be more attracted to the inside of someone, and on top of that, to explore other parts of myself that I hadn’t discovered before.
|
Eroldi Idlore
Eroldi Idlore is a Jewish writer and Oakland resident from the Chicago suburbs. They've been writing as a freelance artist since 2012. Their artistic intent is to reflect pure and liminal earth-based spiritual growth through the use of interpretive story. You can find their other writings in the Lake County Bloom and Levitate Magazine. @makelikeitall |
