fusion

There’s a woman I see on the bus when I come home from work. She smiles constantly – a subtle, creepy smile — even when she’s sitting alone. I heard her say something bitter with that smile on her face. “What’s wrong with people? Why don’t people move to the back of the bus when it’s crowded? That’s what you’re supposed to do!” She waved her hand indignantly, before smiling again with a slightly glazed look in her eyes. “I knew it!” I said to myself. The smile was an affectation. I thought, maybe it covers up negative feelings that she can’t face; maybe her parents told her that she should never show anger — to always be nice. Perhaps they told her that she had to smile otherwise people wouldn’t like her.

It turned out that this woman and I knew the same person, a nice Jamaican woman whom I met on the bus. I approached the bus stop one day and the smiley-creepy-lady and nice Jamaican woman were there. The Jamaican woman introduced us. “Hi,” I said, planning never to say hi to her again. I’ve seen her quite a few times since. I look away or turn my head in the other direction when I’m sitting on the bus and she walks by. I fantasize that she thinks I hate her, that she thinks I’m a snob, that she thinks I think something’s wrong with her, that she thinks I think I’m better than her. I fantasize that she’s desperate for people to like her. Ha ha ha – what fun for me! She’s someone I have an aversion to. I don’t like her. She sits very straight, and wears plain clothes, drab colors – with that smile the whole time.

Too bad for this lady because I read in a zen book once that when we get mischievous thoughts, we shouldn’t freak out and try to suppress them (These were not the exact words.). The book said that we should accept the thoughts, to let them come in then let them go out, because it’s who we are and we can’t escape it. We have that side to us no matter how hard we try to cover up the stench. The writer said also – I’m paraphrasing – that sometimes it’s healthy to act out a little mischief. I suppose as long as it’s not evil. I’m not going to look at the book to make sure that I’ve paraphrased correctly, because I really like the definition I just quoted. What if I’m not remembering it correctly? I don’t want my belief of what the reading was about to be shattered – so there.

This smiling woman was forcing a countenance which made me uneasy. I think that this is the same as me listening to music generally thought of as uplifting merely because it is a common belief that it would lift a person’s mood. Perhaps I would listen to a song like the one below, which is really really good by the way – Mahavishnu rocks! But believing that I should force myself to be ‘lifted’ from a mood by listening to a type of music that is commonly thought of as uplifting is supporting a false idea. The song below has the mantra, ‘Let me fulfill thy will. Oh lord supreme, supreme. Let me fulfill thy will.” It’s a kickass song and I’m not dissing it – I’m just using it as a palatable example because I think inserting an actual Jesus Lordy Lordy gospel song would be too extreme and distracting from my point. I could easily listen to this song with these lyrics and imagine that I’m merging with the idea, “Oh lord supreme, supreme,” and that I should release myself unto this vibration for an all around harmonious rest of the day. But I would listen to a nice song like this and feel murderous, absolute angst, fear and self-loathing after going to work and confronting a reality that only required me to take a really deep look at myself in order to iron things out, instead of trying to escape my mood with some superficial means, or forced method.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v4K1VxNg9Bc

Really what I might feel inside is this:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sem_3Gm3n48

I listen to this and feel invigorated, relieved of the feelings that the mood of the song mirrors. I’m in touch with the reality of the anger and pain that I’m feeling. I’m not smothering it. I’m not going to church on Sunday and on the way home in the car suffering bouts of road rage, or gossiping or judging people on what I believe to be inappropriate based on what “God” told me. I’m looking at me, the reality of me and a wild, imperfect, confounding life .

I know friends, coworkers, and acquaintances who have met significant others online. “Hell no! I’m not doing it!” I say. Pride. Sheer pride. I’m also not one to go running after boys. Only once did I do something mildly resembling pursuing. In high school there was a boy I saw hanging around the school, never in it. I told a few people that I liked him. “Who IS that guy?” I would ask, knowing it would get back to him. And it did. So he came to my house. I gave him a shot gun with a joint. Later on I told him how I thought that it was so hot to be that close to him like that. He told me that he liked it when we talked in adjacent chairs and I put my foot on the chair between his legs. He was gregarious, very attractive, very wild. He cowed a guy who took out a gun and threatened to kill him. “You better put that fucking gun away or I’ll bust your fucking ass!” He told him and the guy just ran off. I also enjoyed somewhat of a wild style and liked boys who looked rocked out, dirty dirty boys. The boy I’m referring to was named after the astronaut who went into orbit the same year that he was born. He was named after an astronaut and I was, as my friends called me, a ‘space cadet’. He had wild parties in his parents’ house, smoked lots of weed, and played in a band. He introduced me to the music of all these cool bands like Mahavishnu, King Krimson, and artists like Annette Peacock. A lot of elements of what I wanted were there but we were not mature enough to be connected to anything solid. It was two and a half years of not quite getting it, especially with all the alcohol and other stuff involved. He had all the pieces of a type that I like. I suppose I’d punch those elements in today if I were to do the online dating thing.

But fuck that shit – I’d rather die!! I’m fifty in November. It’s THAT age. I know people still hooking up anew at this age. But I don’t, as I’ve said before, want to be one of these poor old women pining for a man well into her 70s. Gotdammit I’ve had my chances! And I have the enduring love for my family, friends… I absolutely want nothing but to continue my relationship with writing… But…‘twould be nice if the right fella came along, old, young, hung, not so hung… Eh…

About a year and a half ago I was in Dunkin Donuts talking on the cell with my Mummy. A man slipped me a note on a Dunkin Donuts napkin that said:

I’m so sorry to bother you but I find you to be the most beautiful, well-spoken intelligent woman I have ever seen. I’m not sure if you’re talking to your significant other but I must give you my resume. I’m single, 43, employed, live alone, I don’t have any children and want to have lunch with you if you allow me to treat you. My name is ________. [phone number]

As a writer, I save all letters. I stored this one away thinking I’d put it to good use. Of course ________ wouldn’t think that I put it to good use because I never called________. ________ was…okay looking. I was highly flattered. Hell, I ain’t got nothing else going on now – well, there is this twenty-something kid I’m wondering if I could “cougar” for a couple of hours if you know what I mean — wink wink…