This way

The dust underneath my fingernails was gritty, slow to the touch. As I rubbed it on the metal stairs, equally sturdy and rickety, the texture reminded me of the slowness of life. Life as friction, as speed bumps rendered microscoopic, each particle of dust serving as a reminder that the laws od physics still exist, still hold dominion over my life.

Friction defines our lives, our interactions with people. Isn’t sex just two membranes rubbing against each other? Of course it’s more than that but it is one way of looking at it. Membranes.

On that metal stoop, on those unyielding stairs, I stared unfocused at everything. The road sign blinked in saccato rhythm, this way. This way. The arrow blinked at me, I blinked back. This way, please, it said. This. This. This way.

But was it’s advice good? Was it sensible? Did I have enough understanding to see its hidden words, its quiet call to go home, to go elsewhere than where i am?

The metal grille behind me, a door, a portal into a home, was doubled up, making my eyes cross as I tried to decipher its tracings, it’s path. Did it have a message for me? The pattern of the crosshatchings, the Stitchings of metal, weaved in and out with reality, with my senses until I became unfocused, unseeing enough to see what was really there. And what was there was someone special, someone amazing. Someone that meant something more than just a warm body.

The stillness of the night contrasted nicely with the solid activty of the deaf people on the street, on the sidewalk, providing a visual reminder – a visual feast of thoughts that extended into the air, into the quiet night, until the very air shook with their glad words and angsty tidings. As am observer, I sat apart and felt, saw, and smiled at the utter ridiculous sanity of all that I saw. I am simply one of them, but by stopping, by sitting on the stone wall, the cold stone wall that beat in sync with my pulse equally as it constricted it, I was able to see the truth, that we all march inexorably to the same bivalved drummer.

The dust underneath my fingernails was gritty, slow to the touch. As I rubbed it on the metal stairs, equally sturdy and rickety, the texture reminded me of the slowness of life. Life as friction, as speed bumps rendered microscopic, each particle of dust serving as a reminder that the laws of physics still exist and still hold dominion over my life.

Friction defines our lives and our interactions with people. The negotiation between two people, three people, a group is constant — a word, a sentence, thrown across the chasm that divides us. When we are more intimate, we let our skin do the talking, a rub or touch, a push here, a pull there. Just two membranes rubbing against each other.

On that metal stoop, on those unyielding stairs, I stared unfocused at everything. The road sign blinked in staccato rhythm, this way. This way. The arrow blinked at me, I blinked back. This way, please, it said. This. This. This way.

But was its advice good? Was it sensible? Did I have enough understanding to see its hidden words, its quiet call to gothatway, to go elsewhere than where I was?

The two metal grilles behind me, a door, a portal into a home (I think), was doubled up, making my eyes cross as I tried to decipher its tracings, its path. Did it have a message for me, too? The pattern of the crosshatchings, the stitchings of metal, weaved in and out with reality and with my senses until I became unfocused, unseeing enough to see what was really there.

Later, when I went thataway, elsewhere, down the street and around the block, the stillness of the night contrasted nicely with the solid activity of the deaf people on the street, on the sidewalk, providing a visual reminder—a visual feast of thoughts that extended into the air, into the quiet night, until the very air shook with their glad words and angsty tidings. As an observer, I sat apart and felt, saw, and smiled at the utter ridiculous sanity of all that I saw. I am simply one of them, but by stopping, by sitting on the stone wall, the cold stone wall that beat in sync with my pulse equally as it constricted it, I was able to see the truth, that we all march inexorably to the same bi-valved drummer.

Posted in dc.