Girlwich

I smelled burning leaves tonight, and made a second hot chocolate when I got home. Last night it was windy, and there were crinkled leaves swirling in tight curves around my head. A bat flew formation with me for a while. It's the first stirrings of fall, and I find that I'm delighted to see/hear/smell/feel it. I want apples. I want new perfumes. I want more of those tall socks I buy at American Apparel, even though they're so expensive for what they are.

I want to make an excursion, soon, when my ankle's ready for the traffic, to Chinatown, to pump up my stores of tea. I'm thinking Jasmine.

I want to buy this movie, and this one.

I want to find a way to get out of town for a while, to be in a forest, to look up at the leaves and listen.

I want to find a man who makes me feel the way my spring-summer lover does, but who wants more of me, and of whom I can handle wanting more, myself. I think it's time, or nearly.

I want this yarn. Isn't it the loveliest color? I'm knitting a simple little rolled-edge hat, to get in the mood. And it only just occurred to me that my new hairstyle is the perfect thing for hats. I tried one on yesterday and nearly fell into the proverbial pool looking at my reflection.

Hello fall.

So I wake up and think, I am gonna ride to the beach! Then I look outside and notice that it's cloudy and threatening rain.

I go and put on some good music and make some mediocre coffee. (Sorry, Stumptown; I know you mean well, but you just can't compete.)

By the time I'm back at the computer, cup in hand, it's pouring outside.

I am desperately trying to remind myself that I like riding in rain. But I know that at least some of that has to do with wearing a lot of Gore-Tex, and I also know that there's a burgeoning hole in the inner thigh of my Gore-tex pants.

And then I think about the impending winter. I like riding in winter. There's something bracing and adventurous about it, and I always forget that the streets get less crammed with wobbly and/or obnoxious cyclists, and that it's quiet when it snows, and that I get to imagine that I have the world to myself.

It's interesting, that phrase - world to myself. I use it a lot.

What's odd is that last night what I wanted more than anything was to not be alone in my apartment, in this city full of weirdos doing weird things weirdly right in front of my wheel.

I am always astonished to find myself getting lonely. I think I should be beyond that, immune. It's true that I enjoy my own company. It's true that I like to have space. It's true that I've lived alone so long it's impossible to imagine comfortably sharing a place with another human being. It's true that I don't think I ever want to be married, and I'm certain that I don't want children, and I don't like the fact that I'm currently friendly with my neighbors. I know that sounds weird.

I need a lot of space around me, and I often can't get enough, so how can I possibly ever feel lonely? That conundrum deserves another cup of super-sugared espresso.

In the process of obtaining it, I discover that I've forgotten about the oatmeal I put on the stove, which happens pretty much every time I make oatmeal. And which also reminds me of fall. I don't eat oatmeal in summer, so the fact that I felt like making it today suggests that my body can feel winter approaching. And I've been knitting a little bit, at night, too.

I don't know what to say about winter, except that the feeling of impending winter has a particular flavor to it - a kind of melancholy that is both enjoyable and like a faint bone pain. It feels like loneliness, in fact. Standing on a windy headland, loneliness is beautiful. Sitting in the apartment on a humid Saturday night, it feels like living inside a crinkled piece of tinfoil - loud and stale and too-shiny.

Every time I look out the window now, it's raining harder and harder.

I get up and think about eating that oatmeal. I like winter, I think. I just have to find my way back to it.

Everybody dies alone. - Malcolm Reynolds
Someone's carrying a bullet for you right now, and doesn't even know it. - the same

Alone, together. These are the two states of being between which we bounce back and forth. I guess that's not an accident, since whether we can ever truly be other than alone is one of those great questions that toss us around like a relentless wash cycle.

It's the reason that love is so compelling, I think. And by love I mean the idea of it, not the actuality, which (while also compelling) tends to be more three-dimensional, more like a plate of macaroni and cheese.

I'm not knocking macaroni and cheese. It's delicious. It's just that it's got more to do with satisfying ordinary needs than with feeding the yawning depths of the soul.

Maybe that's unfair. Maybe your soul really yearns for the blue box, and I should keep my weird analogies to myself. But mine, since we are talking about mine, has this feeling that nothing we do or say to one another can get beyond a certain barrier.

I'm a fan of barriers, actually - or at least of personal space. I don't like anyone to get too close, and I really don't want to see too very much of most people's insides. That's where the guts live - the icky bits.

But there's also this perennial urge to connect, to feel that we are understood and that we understand each other. To feel seen.

I don't know if that's really possible. I sometimes think, listening to music, that the artist - or maybe the song itself - sees, understands, is saying what I would say. But perhaps it's only that I've happened on the right music to match a moment. And is there much of a difference between those two things? I know that the role of art is to express something particular, a time, a place, an experience.

And that theoretically, some things are universal enough - or at least similar enough - that other people will go, "Oh yes, that's exactly it."

But I'm not sure that means we can reach each other. I've been in love before and still felt terribly alone, so I suppose feeling alone while being unattached isn't much of a shock.

Maybe it's like needing an interpreter - we can connect only by standing together on the same planet. The ground beneath us touches my feet and yours, and we are linked through it, but we can't ever quite touch each other directly.

So if art is our interpreter, what is sex?

A very dangerous place indeed. In art we may be reaching out, but in sex we're so close to begin with that sometimes we are hiding as much as possible. Ever have sex with someone but were afraid to meet their eyes? Yeah. The room can seem awfully full with two big souls swirling around above you. Sometimes it seems like the closer you are physically, the more careful you have to be not to let those two things meet.

She put a gun in my face.
And cocked it?
Yeah.
You've come back from worse.
(Scene between these two)

Several friends, to me: Hey, why don't you stay off that ankle for a while longer?

I do everything the hard way. People who know me well know this about me, occasionally nudge me about it, and then back off. Because they know I am not going to listen.

When I was a kid we went on a lot of nature walks, and I remember the park rangers telling us we had a choice back up the mountain - the ranger way or the candy way.

The ranger way, obviously, was straight up the steep slope. The candy way was a gentler, probably safer, traverse. Either way you'd get to the same place. I'm not sure that rule holds as true in life. I think when you take the ranger way, you end up someplace different.

The ranger way has its drawbacks. It's lonely. It can be scary. The park has a spooky element to it around midnight. You don't want to stop.

But if you don't take these risks, you miss out on the low-hanging mist with its visible edges. You miss out on the loud crickets and the solo horn player and the figures appearing suddenly, vaguely threatening shadows, coming out of the trees and onto the road.

I could sit home. I could watch endless TV and eat too many snacks and pine for the right company. I could ice my ankle and stay off it and risk nothing.

No, I couldn't. I really couldn't.

Blog angst:

1. Would you forgive me for a pictureless post?
2. Whenever I log into Movable Type and it tells me my last post was x-date instead of x-days ago, I feel like it's been long enough that I "owe" you a post.
3. What about if I have nothing to say?
4. Or nothing over 140 characters to say?
5. Insert tune to "Video killed the Radio Stars," but for video substitute Twitter and for Radio Stars substitute this blog. Or all blogs, everywhere.
6. Will this affect my ability to write books?
6-sub1: Will they be 250 pages of one-liners?
7. If I tell you about how I sprained my ankle, you will have already read it on Twitter. (backwards reference to 5, so maybe this is properly 5-sub1, albeit out of order)
8. I can't tell you about last night, other than to say I'd like to do it all over again, maybe with different music, just for variety.
9. That new show "Rubicon" is not nearly as smart as it thinks it is. It's overwritten. If it were a Twitter feed, it would be the same couple of lines, over and over again. Overexplanation is the death of wit.
10. Who said that? I did.
11. I know, I know - it sounds like Wilde, but it isn't.

My ankle hurts. No number necessary. It's a recurring theme.

Life for me is a soft tug-of-war between solitude and sociability. I've heard it said that if one is recharged by being around others, one is an extrovert, and if one is recharged by being alone, one is an introvert.

I guess I'm half and half.

I had the loveliest day yesterday, perhaps because it contained both good alone-time and good together-time. The first part of the day was a slow curve into wakefulness. I don't like to leap into consciousness. My friend's new baby always wakes up cranky, as if the process of moving from one state of being to the next is distressing, and I feel the same way.

It takes some hours. The cat gets fed while I'm still mostly asleep and can barely walk because my calves have tightened themselves into rubber bands overnight. Then there's the snoozing. Then there's the waking up from a tangled dream. Then there's stumbling around making coffee. Then puttering and chatting with Kitwich.

Then I hung about musing gently about where I'd ride.

Then a sudden burst of packing and pumping (air), and I was off, rolling gently toward Brighton Beach. It's not always magical at Brighton, but when it is, it really is.

There were the Russian elderly, with their intensely characteristic faces. There were the young people playing volleyball in their bright colors, so handsome they looked like Baywatch East.

Every direction I turned my camera there was a short story unfolding, most of them narrated in Russian. I loved the two ladies on the bench - one with cherry-icee hair and one with bright lavender.

I asked this couple for permission to take their picture and they wanted to see how it came out. "Look how cute you are!" I said, handing them the camera. They were snuggling on that bench like teenagers.

There were two guys walking together, pulling a lot of beach equipment behind them - chairs and umbrellas and surfboards - the white one was deeply sunburnt and his friend was too dark-skinned to show any sign of sun. Ebony and Ivory go to the Beach, I thought.

Later, riding home, the friend I'd arranged to meet called and invited me over for dinner. We went out for beer, to a new bar (I'd been there once before and liked it), and there was plenty of room for us to sit, and just enough people for it to feel like we were Out.

She got tipsy, and I had some of that good stout, and we talked about life and art and the difficulties of managing both of those together. There was a bike rack out front, and a bouncer keeping an eye, and it felt so welcoming. We thanked him when we left, and he gave us a brilliant smile.

A few days ago when my -er- friend was here, I took some pictures. I'm not sure he knew why I was doing it, though he allowed it. It was the light.

I'm not often up in the actual morning, and when I am, I'm struck by how different the light is. A few months ago I was visiting a friend on the West Coast, and every time we went for a bike ride, I kept commenting on the light. At any given hour, it seemed to slant or glow or do something that had me mesmerized.

Professional photographers always talk about light, and I've always assumed they were talking shop - it sounds so technical. But I think it may be more that they're in love with light - how it changes the way everything looks from moment to moment, like those paintings Monet did - the same scene, over and over again, at different times of day.

I have my own experiences like that. Not just of how the light changes, but how the traffic changes, and how the air smells different, and how all of that makes it seem like I'm seeing different sides of a personality. The park, the path, the deep-city streets. These places are not the same at 3am as they are at 3pm.

At 3am, there is a basketball game - 12 people, playing for real, on an unlighted court.

You would never know that if you weren't riding by. I felt privileged to see it.

In her 43rd year, she took a lover seventeen years her junior, learned to play the field, became adept at smoking joints, and got in trouble with the IRS.

Would you like that character, if you were reading her in a novel?

I was just reading a post by another blogger, and realized it isn't just me who's being introduced to herself in her 40s. I had a flash the other day where I looked at myself, where I was and whom I was with, and marveled that this is my life now. You don't think, when you're twenty, that your life in middle age will be anything to write home about. You also don't think, I expect, that you'll still be very much discovering yourself.

I think now that I may be discovering myself forever. In that last moment of breath, I may have a little flash of insight where something unfolds and I want to jump off and explore it. Why not, after all? It happens all the time now.

I only hope I'll still be riding my bike.

I'm not trying to be quiet, I swear I'm not. It's only that I am rushing from thing to thing, and composing little fragments in my head while I'm on the bike, or while I'm falling asleep half-thinking about the old mystery novel I'm reading, whose pages are on the verge of crumbling but whose words still feel fresh.

And because we lack the technology for direct brain-to-blog transfer, there they sit, little postlets, flitting about in the nether regions of my brain, tangled up in Lord Peter Wimsey's long legs.

It's 3:17 am, and I like writing (or doing practically anything) at 3:17 am. Anything I put my mind to seems filled with extra juice in those precious "wee" hours. I have never been able to adequately explain why I seek out the deep night, though people who don't know me often ask, once they find out.

I usually say something like, "It's quiet. I have the world to myself." Neither of which is exactly true, nor is it the whole reason.

I have this feeling, you see, that it's those hours that lend themselves to magic. Perhaps because those are the hours in which the rest of the world dreams, and dreams hard. I prefer to use that dream-time for conscious thought; maybe I sense that the wider possibilities of dream-worlds cling to those hours, and invest whatever I'm working on with extra shine.

Yeah, I like the pixie dust. What can I say?

I'll tell you this - I had an unusual experience recently, which, without giving too much detail, involved being in a slightly altered state. And since then I find that I can, at will, conjure up some of the perceptions that made it special.

Strangely, this ability is related to why I don't normally seek out altered states. Make that artificially altered states - we all know how I feel about endorphins.

I've always felt, simply put, that my brain was quite interesting enough, thank you, and didn't need artificial enhancement.

I still think that's true. What I also think is that a little light artificial enhancement* can be interesting, not just in the moment, but later. I can remember how things looked or felt, and in a sense, those doors of perception (to borrow from Blake) are still open to me. This is the magic of my brain. It goes so easily to Alice in Wonderland.

Reading this over, it occurs to me that this is what it is to be an artist. It's not news to me, but I'll say it anyway. You spend your life - as much of it as you can manage - out on the border between fantasy and reality, between awake and asleep. It's like sleeping in a tree.

*Before you ask, I wasn't doing hallucinogens. It takes so very little to entertain me.

Yeah, um, right.

I can't even begin to tell you about my week, so I won't try. Let's just say that several of my ideas have been confirmed, and a few others shaken up.

a) Do not, repeat, do NOT sleep with anyone on the first date. Confirmed.
b) Do not alter one's mental state by chemical means. Shaken up, busted, then slightly confirmed again. Which means the jury is somewhat out and further (but more moderate) testing is required.
c) The one you want is the one you want. Confirmed.
d) You cannot have the one you want, at least not in the quantity that you want. So, then what? No fracking idea.
e) Lots of playing with boys and partying with -um- other boys = not getting enough (or even any) work done. Confirmed.
f) I hate saddle sores. Confirmed, goddamnitalltohell.
g) Am I really that pretty, holy crap, why am I having so much trouble with boys? Oh, right. Because the one who's giving me the most trouble is just as pretty as I am. Sigh.

I guess that about covers it.

Here we are, at the intersection of weird and sad. Getting over it (it being everything) is visible in the distance, but they're uphill miles.

I'm hungry and I just ate, which is true both physically and metaphorically.

I'm sitting next to the window with the herb plants and today someone offered me a kitten with my haircut. I had to decline, citing Kitwich's continued sanity. I doubt she'd maul it or anything, but I also doubt she'd forgive me for taking away her only-child status. And I have some sympathy with that position.

I just looked over at her, stretched out on the rug looking both quizzical (What do you want? Are you asking me if I want the a/c back on? Because the answer is yes) and content. Cats usually look content. They're either very bored, or not very smart, or far wiser than we are, and it's impossible to tell which.

She's a rather brilliant cross-species communicator, but even so I have trouble telling what she's thinking when she looks at me like that. Inscrutable and imperturbable.

There was a thing - a terrible thing - that happened a few days ago, and I'm having some repercussions from it. The boy who refuses to get the hell out of my head was there, and was spectacularly unhelpful, and I went home and couldn't sleep. And then the next day I ran away and did something that might have been foolhardy (the jury is still out; I keep hoping no harm was done, but it didn't feel right either). And now I have a date with a third.

I am guardedly a little excited about the date with the third, though I really oughtn't to be, since the odds are slim with these things. It would be nice if it worked out well. It would, in fact, go a long way toward solving a few of my current difficulties. Shannon's going to tell me I'm being tantalizing again, but I expect you can all read between the lines.

I often have a post going in my head while riding, but when I get home it's gone, superseded (usually) by the need to eat.

Some nights I wish I could show you what I'm seeing. There's a section of the park that looks like Where the Wild Things Are.

There are bats diving overhead, sometimes quite close. I've been told we have them to thank for the relatively low mosquito count. Another reason to like them.

They fly rather like butterflies, I always think. Giant brown leathery butterflies. Tim Burton butterflies.

I keep waking up and being delighted to remember that it's Tour de France time, and I get to start my day with Phil Liggett's inimitable voice. There's something special about Phil, and it's rather magical to hear him every day.

I haven't heard from the boys in weeks, and I'm adjusting. I've done some riding with other people and a lot of riding solo, and what I've found is that I actually adore riding by myself. I really dislike the pressure that I've begun to sense from other cyclists, to ride more aggressively, to "kill it" on the hill, etc. I suppose I oughtn't to be surprised that people who race would exhibit a competitive streak in social riding, but I'm still annoyed by it.

I was talking to Boywich about it, and he was (as he so often is) clear and supportive on the subject. The thing is, my chief goal is always to be able to keep riding. That means: a) avoiding accidents (as much as possible), and b) not injuring my knees by pushing too hard in certain situations.

Add to that that I'm at least 10 years older than most of the people I ride with, and you end up with a situation where it's often a relief to simply be alone and ride the way I want to.

I don't know whether it's simply on my mind lately or that I've only recently started to see it, but a lot of my friends have a judgmental streak - about what people eat, about the way they ride. I recently started eating a little bit of meat, and I've kept that information to myself for the most part. Several of my friends are what I think of as judgmental vegans, and I just don't want to deal with their reactions to it.

I have my own reasons for eating what I eat, and I don't feel that it's anybody's business. But I also don't feel like being on the receiving end of their horror. It's a turkey sandwich. Get the fuck over it.

I was watching a documentary last night, which followed a long and arduous journey through a wide variety of cultures, and the travelers simply ate whatever they could find, and they made no bones about it. They were, by and large, delighted by the people they met - many of whom welcomed them into their homes. And afterwards, when they talked about what they liked most about the journey, it was the people, the chance to just hang out with people whose lives and ideas were completely unknown to them. They found some kind of harmony in that, and they felt they'd learned a lot.

I suppose this all sounds simplistic, but I find that I'm chafing against that oddly persistent human desire for homogeneity - that desperate need to make everyone think and act just like you.

I wish I'd taken pictures tonight. I was on a roof, looking at the skyline - the Empire State lit redwhiteandblue, bridges strung with lights, the water. Behind the jagged outline of buildings a string of matching fireworks, 6 I think, were exploding into colors.

There were smiley-face fireworks (dorky), planet fireworks (Saturn, with a ring), big puffball fireworks that looked for all the world like dandelions gone to seed (or sea urchins). There were jellyfish fireworks and fizzy-pop red ones, and ones that looked like Christmas tree lights which didn't so much explode as hang there for a few moments and then slide down like leaves off a tree.

It would have made a great photograph, even if the camera couldn't (as I'd convinced myself when I decided against bringing it) capture them very well.

By anybody's standards it was a remarkable sight - the skyline added so much - and it struck me as crazy that it took so little doing to get there. It was a short ride to a friend's house, up a flight of stairs or two, and voila - big famous spectacle.

That's the thing about living here - you get so saturated with the difficulties of it, and the drudgeries, that you hardly notice where you are. It's more like the city becomes a part of you - it's seeped into your pores, and like most things that live in your pores, it's pretty unpleasant much of the time.

You ignore it, or you deal with it as best you can, and if once in a while you look over at the Statue of Liberty while you're crossing the bridge, well, that's pretty, you think. And it still doesn't make an impact. Because it's part of your life.

People fly thousands of miles to see that - they drink it in like some fabulous rare cocktail, and for you, because it's running out of the tap, it's just There. Familiar landscape. Hey, Liberty, Babe. What's shakin'? How you doin'? Nice dress.

Sitting here waiting for the thunder to come. Well, we'd settle for the rain.

The cat has been lying on the floor looking like a wrung-out dishtowel. Or a flat noodle. She seems to be under the impression that striving for two-dimensionality will cool her off.

I gave her ice cubes. Not interested. I tried to introduce her to the wonders of the icepack. She was vaguely frightened.

Myself I'm so dehydrated that my brain isn't working well enough to remember to buy the Gatorade that sent me to the grocery store in the first place. I'd get it at the bodega, but I spent my very last cash pennies on ice cream in town. I meant to go look for a new bikini (Old Navy's having a sale, and the bottoms of my old one are too big for me even before they get wet), but I forgot.

I have no money; it's all credit cards. Sigh. Let's not even go there.

I ran into my sometimes-playmate randomly on the street yesterday, and nearly got run over because I wasn't paying attention to traffic. I was distracted by the proximity of the handsomeness. He smells so good. Cardinal rule #1: Don't look at the boys. It will get you smushed by large objects with four wheels.

Today I found myself staring at a skateboarder who was gliding by in the opposite direction and had to remind myself, verbally. DON'T LOOK AT THE BOYS! You are on a big street with rush-hour traffic and four firetrucks blocking the entire right lane, and there's a little black Accord with out-of-state plates diving out in front of you and nearly ramming itself into the bus that is also in front of you, and now you have to maneuver around four lanes of mess with oncoming traffic coming at you and the bus and the out-of-stater, plus firetrucks. DO NOT LOOK AT THE BOYS.

Yeah, right. I think I need to move apts soon. Maybe I can find one where there's a third tap in the kitchen, marked "Gatorade."

There are times when I don't know how I'm feeling. Okay, there a lot of those times. And when I do know, I often wish I weren't. Feeling, that is.

Lately things catch me by surprise - I think I know what I want, and what I can deal with, and then I'm thrown some sort of a curve ball, and what it does (other than require a lot of effort to knock it out of the path of my face) is to stick itself onto one end of something that I'm not really aware of, and unravel it.

And then I'm suddenly in tears (just a bit - I rarely do a full-on cry) pedaling through the mist, because a) I didn't know I was feeling that, and b) what I'm feeling kind of sucks.

Also, c) there's rarely a damn thing I can do about it.

I had a sudden moment of realizing how broken hearted I felt about most aspects of my life, and I wasn't prepared for that, and there was nothing much to do about it, except keep pedaling.

The scenery was rather good:

half-moon rising above parting clouds
fingers of mist with streetlamps pouring yellow sodium streams into them
trees and rain and mud on the ground
smells of river and drowned flowers
that view across the water, looking for all the world like Monet's unknown masterpiece - Park at Dark

I watched the shadows of tire and chainrings, rotating.

It was a beach day, and I brought my camera and yet took no pics. I never even pulled it out of my pannier. Why?

Because my eyes were closed and I had a hat over my face. Because I was watching my friend play in the water. Because I was there to relax, not to gather blog fodder.

Because I was hoping to find a new seashell to replace the one that broke (twice) in my necklace last night.

We'd both had terrible weeks, and we hadn't seen each other in a while. She's healing from a somewhat serious injury (she's okay; it's just a little scary) and hasn't been riding much. I'm healing from a deep well of stress at work and have been riding a lot, but not with people.

We just needed to ride, and sit in sand, and listen to water and watch it move, and foam, and froth, and fade. The gulls overhead, a tern here and there - black head red beak - waving grasses. A lot of poison ivy. French fries (I didn't eat them, but I ate a heckuva lot of cake later on).

We rode home, we ate dinner, we went out for beer. We sat outside in a crowded bar, but it was friendly, and we were in good moods, finally, after all this time.

I tried to write a post yesterday, but my server was down. Then I tried to tweet tonight, but the World Cup had apparently broken the living daylights out of Twitter (it's still limping a bit).

All I was gonna do was write you a little list of stray thoughts as they occurred to me. I suppose I could still do that.

My mileage has increased, and with it my appetite. I can no longer manage on 5 meals a day. Think I'm kidding? Spend a day with me. And bring your wallet.

I have: a) a tan that ends mid-thigh, and b) little callouses on my palm below my second and third fingers.

The cat has a new trick whereby she climbs into my lap, flops herself onto my torso (about 60% of which real estate she takes up), and lolls her head into my chest, while gazing soulfully into my eyes. What is she, a frickin' Harlequin romance novel?

I have taken to riding to a beach nearly every weekend, just to get away from the human populace. It is soothing. And then I ride to a honky tonk beach, to be amused by the human populace. I'd tell you part of a conversation my friends and I overheard at the latter last weekend, but it is unprintable. So was her outfit.

My baby sister turned 40 this year, and a couple of days ago a young man from the Internet asked me if I'd consider dating a guy in his mid-20s. Given that a man of that exact age had just left my bed, I had to answer in the affirmative. I suppose that sounds like bragging.

It's occurred to me recently that - until now - I'd never actually let myself consider what I want from men. So I gave that some thought. I don't have an exact answer, but I have some ideas about what I don't want, and that is a start.

I've started to think of myself as a bachelor. I've started to think that being single by choice is not the same as being celibate. It's been an interesting week.

PS. The birds are singing and that was my last lightbulb.

I sometimes wonder about the impressions we make on each other. I realize the impact of a human life is about as lasting as a footprint in the sand.

Maybe it lasts long enough for the birds to notice, maybe not, but it seems to me that most of what goes on between two people happens below the surface, at the level that isn't talked about - or can't be.

I remember that scene in Moonstruck, where Cher is telling Nicholas Cage that the big part of him has no words, that it's a wolf, and that it does what it has to do between him and him.

I sometimes think it would be better if we simply interacted with each other that way. No words, no interpretations, just action and responding action.