A long time ago, Julien wrote about sentences being ill, about electrogrammaticalograms and being a nurse of lost words. I still can’t forget this mail because it puts me in a certain mood. I’m sure you know how certain words, books, or songs can transport you. Déjà vu. Reminiscent of the time when we were children still in awe of what lay beyond ourselves, and of what we couldn’t avoid. You see, no matter how old we get or how much we believe we can take on the world single-handedly, there’s always that emotion that pops out of nowhere, similar to when we were still holding on to our mother’s skirt in a busy marketplace on a Sunday afternoon, cautious enough not to let go because doing so would result to a frantic search through a sea of unaccustomed faces, for one face that never seems to materialize. The universal pathos of suddenly being misplaced.
But then you find that person, or that person finds you, appearing before you in a sea of the unfamiliar; cool and calm and smiling, refreshing as an oasis in the desert, saying that it’s all right, you’re okay, of course I won’t leave you here, just hold on tighter next time. And then cancels the dazed look off your face and murmurs comforting words until your panic subsides and you’re feeling calmer and you’re confident to go through the crowds again, now that you know.
People have commented on my offhandedness and nonchalance, but the truth is that I miss him an awful lot, more than I care to show. I may own a vintage wind-up robot, but I’m not one myself. Sometimes, TV dinners get the best of you. I’ve had those nail-biting evenings at the gallery, an open book propped on my lap with my mind wandering. Though group dancing is a world of fun (why do all my evenings always involve group dancing, in a drunken stupor may I add?), it would be fantastic to slowdance too (especially when you’re drunk; then you can put your spinning head on someone’s shoulder, and vice versa).
That said, I shall be in Jordan in a few days’ time.
