On Friday someone told me I was lovely instead of the other way around.
On Saturday I stood waiting my turn in class and saw down the end of the room (seated) a stranger friend. Audience.
Thought I, "I know him." And some long minutes later realised what I knew: The way he cradled his knees; spoke with a New York accent; shadowed his face in long dark dreadlocks. I thought of the last time I showed up to class with messy bedsheets. Thought of how incongruous this made mee feel to a place of rigor, routine, reputation...
This particular Saturday, the messy bedsheets seemed fitting. Suited, in fact, to the onstage wrestle, hair tugging, indulgence, story telling. This place of routine now a place of something past. And what felt out of place now routine.
No comments:
Post a Comment