Sunday, October 25, 2009


Today was a blur; or possibly three blurs; or possibly innumerable blurs -- so many blurs that they all start blurring together. Everything about the day felt detached from anything else, but not in that pointillist sort of way where each event stands out in stark contrast, nor in that infinite day sort of way where there are just too many things happening to take them all in. In a buzzing, absurdist-philosophy sort of way where I'm walking down the street but it feels more like I'm watching myself walk down the street (and if I had a gun in my hand and the sun shone a little brighter, I might just fire the gun, but it wouldn't really be me doing it, it would be the sun and the heat and the... I don't know what. On a side note, I never really appreciated Camus before I started feeling like this; Sartre seemed -- for lack of a better word -- more constructive. There's something about internality/externality and free will there that I won't get into because it would be unimaginative regurgitation of something I heard somewhere, probably).

Lately, I feel like if I stop moving, even for a second, I don't really recognize myself, or I don't like what I see. It's like; I started dancing because I was bored and I was looking (probably) for someone (which I know and I knew was not a reason to start dancing so I insisted that I was looking for something, namely, a hobby), but now the dancing has just taken over in a way. That doesn't make any sense. Maybe what I'm saying is just that when I stop dancing, the vague dull loneliness comes back and I wonder why I can't get any of my student friends to go dancing with me and why I don't really feel comfortable calling my dance partners 'friends'. And so I didn't write this weekend because I was dancing, which was certainly nice. But it left me feeling (always leaves me feeling?) sort of detached from myself, in a strange way.

On the other hand, I'm already dancing basically every Monday, Tuesday (if you count silks, which I do), and Friday (and quite a good number of Saturdays as well), with dances I've been meaning to check out on Wednesday and Thursday as well. So, it seems to me, it very well might be possible to never stop dancing. Except on Sundays. I don't know if that's a solution or not. Or even if I have a problem. Perhaps I am just very, very, tired.

And that's as close as I can come to an explanation for this drabble, which popped into my head almost fully formed.
Brooke stared at the mirror; dark brown eyes stared back.

She blinked. So did they.

She pulled a face. The mirror mimicked her grimace.

She touched the smooth glass surface.

She frowned, and turned away, not knowing what to make of it.

Gary was still in bed. He yawned blearily and grabbed her hand as she sat on the edge. “You’re up early,” he mumbled.

She smiled indulgently. “It’s almost noon.” And then, on a whim, “What color are my eyes?”

“Blue,” he answered. “Is this a test?”

“No,” she said, and kissed him, and resolved to sell the mirror.
Almost, because as initially written it wasn't unsettling; it just sounded like he didn't know what color her eyes were. Maybe it still does, I'm not sure -- I think some ambiguity in that direction is good. But it should be ambiguity, and not "Oh, well obviously..."

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