Please view my inspiration pieces at:
http://johntimmons.com/video/archives/508http://steveersinghaus.com/mediaplay/?p=1085Jennifer had a habit of falling for men who she knew from jump could not should not or would not fall for her and she feared being asked about this in the
interview. Especially since Jennifer knew
she would be sitting there by his side, Alfred to his Batman during the day, but in the night... How could Jennifer tell
her when she was starting to fall for
her too. Jennifer had seen
her pictures, she knows she shouldn't have looked but she had to, and they broke her heart. They told a story of a comfortable, weird, happy, lovely life-husband, children, mother, pets, and
her as the wife.
What she wanted was under both their skin.
If asked about it in the interview she would lie though they both would already know the truth. If they were kind they would accept her lies and move on to the next question, the question of reality. There she had no fear in answering. Jennifer would sit up straight and say"I don't know yet if this is the right path for me but I am willing to travel down it a little further in order to find the answer." She had started down the path for him, and they, by now, would also know that, but now she was traveling it for herself. If they were compassionate they would understand and move on to the next question of
windows. There also, Jennifer had no fear in answering. "We see what we want, not what is there or not there when we look through a window." He would nod his head slightly in understanding waiting for her to say more, but
she, Jennifer had never met
her yet so she had no idea how
she would react.
"When I look out the window onto my deck I see a grill covered in a green cloth and two chairs folded up, leaning against the brick wall. I also see two empty flower pots, one large, one small, that from them once grew sweet and fragrant basil that I never used to cook with." That was the objective, descriptive representation of what they would see if they too looked out the sliding glass doors onto her deck. Jennifer continued "But what I also see is failure and potential, disappointment and possibility." There was no need to elaborate on those dichotomous views, her remark about the basil pretty much explained that, and Jennifer was sure they would both understand.
It was then, however, that Jennifer realized while one might perceive this dialogue as an interview, in her mind it was turning into an inquisition and the secrets that churned within her would soon overflow the levees of her mind, there was no blow out preventor that could cap the shame and desire that gushed from the bottom of her soul. It was the damn
dream, five years ago and she couldn't shake the guilt associated with the dream even though at the time Jennifer had no idea that
she even existed.
That's when Jennifer realized the interview (inquisition?) was over. There was nothing that she could say next that would be perceived in any one's reality to be the proper thing to say. She had two choices: she could tell them about the dream, let the water crush the levee and the well gush freely. But who would be able to clean up that mess? There was no dispersant that could send the pool of pain, passion, lust, and betrayal into meaningless fragments to be swallowed by the world and eventually forgotten. Or Jennifer could calmly stand up, shake their hands, thank them for their time, turn around and walk (run) from the room never looking back.
Maybe, Jennifer thought, there was a third choice. She could still calmly stand up, shake their hands, thank them for their time, and leave but then she could tell someone else:
Ruiz, Thomas Cobb, or her friend,
the comatose patient still stuck in a blue checked armchair on the shore of
Coventry Lake. Then her secret dream would sink like a stone to the bottom of a calm and beautiful lake instead of ravaging a gulf of which she had no concept of the width or depth. So that's what she did, she shook the interviewers' hands and headed out into the peaceful chaos of the sidewalk outside the firm. Someone had dropped their hat on the ground, funny that she had not noticed it on her way in, she picked it up, placed it on her head, and took a cab to the hospital. She placed the hat at the bedside of the comatose patient, sat down and began to confess her dream:
"I once knew a carpenter who told me he had been trapped on a raft at sea. One day he came to my shop. I owned a small shop with an apartment above, I sold fine household items, milled French soaps, hand embossed stationary, and the like. I don't know whether the carpenter came to my shop to see me or the shop but it didn't matter. Perhaps he came to see me or perhaps, being recently widowed, he came in because he knew his wife loved the shop. She had been in on many occasions though I didn't know she was the carpenter's wife. She enjoyed sending hand-written letters and often purchased note cards that were thick and creamy white with delicately embossed patterns. Maybe he was looking for me, maybe he was looking for a sight, a smell, a shadow of his recently deceased wife. He saw me and began to weep. I hadn't seen him in years since he had repaired some broken boards on my deck and I was surprised and happy then concerned to see him weeping next to my display of delicate English bone china tea cups. 'What's the matter?' I asked him. 'My wife passed away and I am all alone now.' That was the end of conversation, no more needed to be said. I embraced him gently then led him up the stairs to at the back of the shop that led to my small apartment above. There wasn't much to it, a galley kitchen where I could have made him a cup of tea, but instead, I led him to the large walnut bed covered with a thick white duvet that covered crisp white linen sheets. We made love, not for the act of love, but for the act of comfort and though he continued to weep throughout, I knew the act of flesh against and into flesh was momentarily distracting (or maybe eyes closed he was reliving) but wrong yet necessary. I wanted him to put his pain in me so I could take it on and take it away from him. This was before I had any loss of my own and could not fathom the futility of this or any other act of distraction in the face of grief and the finality of death."
That was it, it was only a dream but the detail and the sadness and consummation of it stayed with her for weeks and to this day the memory of the dream is faded but the person it opened her up to become is bright, shining, flawed, hopeful, and real. If you looked out your window right now and saw her, she might seem sad yet beautiful, beaten down yet still fighting, alone yet connected,
a transparent frame or an intersection of light, the hardscrabble path behind her or a yellow brick road in front of her that she need only open her eyes and begin to walk down.
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