Running late, drinking yesterday's cold coffee, grabbing keys and things....hoping the car didn't break down when I didn't even have a bra on.
Okay, Mystery Driver, you caught me. Yes, I was fiddling with my lighter and didn't hurry up and make that turn so fast. Yes, you caught me!!! But, the honk AFTER I moved was just stupid. Okay, got it! You're angry...You're Faster...You're the Best Rapid-Fire Honker in the World!!!! I'll bet you even have piping hot coffee in there, too. The driver raced around me in anger....so angry.
At first, I thought about being pissed off, too. Then, some magical calm came over me. We, all the cars, just had to stop at another light. And Speedy, McSpeedy, only got one car ahead. I suddenly felt sorry for the driver. What a shitty morning you must be having to drive and honk like that. I suddenly wished that I had a flower, like that hippy did with the gun, to give this driver. It will be okay man, just put down the horn, we'll all be okay.
I never had a nickname...well, one that stuck. Words only reserved for particularly stunning people, memorable people. At an early age, I knew that I would not memorable, I would not doing anything of recognition, or greatness. Don't think I'm fishing for compliments, I'm not. I am simply recalling experiences and facts of my own life.
I realized that at and early age that maybe I didn't need or want a nickname. Depends on the day, I think. There are some days that I would so much, so very much, to be special. For someone to think of me worthy of adoring me with such a thing, a word of my very own.But, then within that longing, that craving, there is also a deep rooted sense of reality and a keen nose for bullshit. Words can control...and know one likes that - or at least, I don't.
I doubt McSpeedy would have cared for the nickname. And while my father called me Cookie Monster, I almost called my own child that....maybe for some semblance of a family tradition...for a family ideal that I never had. I stopped using the nickname. And in bigger terms we use Serial Killer for some, and Solider for others. Yet, the two almost function in the same capacity; although one is for selfish reasons, and the other is for the greater good.
Names just isolate us all from distinguishing the multiply parts of any one thing or person. Words can keep us all with clothes on, layers. Well, save the Emperor. I think it would have been a much better story if the Emperor had known he was naked all along. I would like to believe that is possible of all of us...to be naked, to be seen, to be accepted as such. But, we're not like that. Maybe we're not even capable of it. I mean, look the hippies are just dying off. And I doubt the resurgence of MDMA, since it's no long pure, will offer us more salvation either.
I have been fortunate enough to see many people naked...not just of clothes, stop giggling. Some at their most vulnerable times. And they trusted me, another human, to witness, help, listen. How magical is that. Likewise, I have been exposed. I would think some was by choice. At this point in my life, I try to be as available to experiences; even the ones that come with a cost.
I thought today about my dear, creative, friend. He had a nickname. He was special. He would have done great things. But, no one was in the same space as he was when he was the most naked.
They found his body, one winter. Everyone was on Christmas vacation. He was alone. They found his body, hanging from the ceiling.
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