It's still Sunday

I really don't know what day it is: I just put the garbage out at the curb...it's the wrong day, I thought tomorrow was Tuesday. Day has felt like several different lives. Regretted, since I left the house, that I wasn't carrying a camera, but didn't have time to go back, I was already late. Walked through the sculpture park late in the afternoon, warm sun, warm air; hard shadows; empty chairs waiting for sitting in, the orange matching the surrounding trees; birches with bright shots of yellow amid the green; glowing rust against bright blue sky. Crowds looked out to the western horizon, watching boats and mountains, gulls spinning through the sky. Others climbed the roof of the temporary structure, I did that too, and when I had walked one way and back, walked up to class and after looking and re-checking the clock, realized I was still early, and not ten minutes late. Sat and watched a Croatian band play, enjoying watching the faces around me light up and sing along, words I didn't know; heartfelt memories, I didn't feel. My second day of dropping into someone else's culture.

And I don't think being truthful in the moment and calling what you are getting necessarily needs to be going for the jugglar just to get a reaction. In some ways, that's faking the tension, forcing the moment. At any rate, there is more than one form of tension on stage and in the world, going for the fight is the easy one, the easiest one. Right there at the surface for most of us. I shoulda' called it, called out the behavior, I only questioned the statement, and then bit back. I didn't go for the jugglar, 'cos while I was slightly hurt, for someone that hardly knows me, it can't be about me, even if they think it is: it's about them. You don't know me enough for me to believe it's about me. How's that for abstraction? Still it's true. We all have baggage, it's usually (not always) about that. We read ourselves on someone else instead of really being present with them, really seeing who it is that is in front of us. In polite reality, we stay on the surface, the safe place.  In this room, we have to strip it away. Still sometimes the intimacy of attention can be mistaken for love, or other strong feelings, but is that real outside the room?