22 April, 2004

Out of My Head

...there is no spoon.

The first time I saw him was five years ago.

Music swelled, lifted to a rumbling crash, thrum of bass pounding all around me as his chair flew into the air, up, away, away, while the choir wailed in a language I don't speak.

Three years later, blown away meeting him in person, I chat with him in the hallways between sessions, and was privileged to drive him to the airport.

Two years after that, we tentatively form a bond of mutual interest. He's self-depricatingly funny, and I sense the avacado metaphor at work. He refuses to admit to being a genius but doesn't argue with me about the matter, either.

I haven't seen him since I took him a second time to the airport. He's become one of my dearest friends, and we talk almost daily.

(Pitiful, I latch onto his former partner when he is in town this past fall, enjoying him for his connection to this amazing man as much as I enjoy him for his altogether enjoyable self.)

It isn't often that I can identify the music playing the moment I see someone who will someday be beyond belief and reason important to me. This is different.

I have the Quidam soundtrack.


My sister wonders if I write "in persona" and I wonder why she wonders that.

She tells me there's an "undercurrent of sex" in my writing.

"Isn't there always, in everything?" I wonder.

She insists not.

I wonder.

Discussion welcomed here.

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