Cenote

I've noticed that most people spend a large proportion of their existence attempting to look acceptable in public. Under the guise of ‘professionalism’ and ‘normality’ anything off-kilter is virtually deemed improper. If it’s not proper, it isn’t real, and it doesn’t exist or it shouldn’t. Heels and skirts (hurts) for the woman, and suits (boots) for the menschen. Let’s all work with what God gave us, right? I mean, in terms of gender constructs, obviously. Boots on a woman, at work, in an OFFICE! Now that is incendiary stuff. Boots speak of hard labour and mud. Sweat and dirt under manicured fingernails. It’s almost as perverse as digging spuds in stilettos. If you’re nerdy enough to look up the statistics, they give you a weird insight into the basic but bizarrely desperate need for any one person to feel accepted by strangers. Of course, there are those who claim they don’t care. These False Anomalies (that’s what we shall call them, henceforth) can simply be explained away by the fact that people are liars. No one cares that they are lying, because they are the motorbike types. The revvers at the traffic lights. The point I’m trying to make about being absorbed into the custard of humanity isn’t notable in any sense, apart from that it is not solely a human trait. It’s a hybrid of animalistic intuition and tribalism at its zenith. Strangely for something so fundamentally grounded in blood and sweat and other bodily fluids, romance too, plays a part in this concept. Attraction or attention, even, as violent visual conquest, as capturing, like swarms of wild birds in marsh-nets, the innocent (or foolish) gazes of anyone and everyone, and locking them into that origami cage that folds down to invisibility, papering over hairline fractures of insecurity that crackle over the contours of any corpus; A mannequin coated in peeling paint.

I’m not a particularly attention-seeking girl. I try not to advertise my presence. Presence is, after all, a curious thing. If you need to prove you’ve got it, you probably never had it at all. Now, I don’t know if I have it, but have decided that it’s one of those things where if you are overly conscious of it or care too much, you can kill it with kindness. If you look directly at the sun, your eyes will fail you, no wisdom in exchange (aside from the hindsight that it was probably not such a good idea to look in the first place). No Tiresian prophecies, simply good sense. I feel uncomfortable under the gaze of others. As a teenager, I went through a two year phase at school of wearing a scarf across my face. (Forgive my insensitivity, here, but in a sense) I took up the veil. It was a security thing. Occidentalist cultures seem to talk about the veil as being something entirely negative, like those awful people you always have the bad fortune to have sitting behind you at the theatre. The kind that make hideous personal comments about the players but actually have no idea who the players are and are often too stupid the 'get' the play. My favourite, recently, was: “Yes, his girlfriend is beautiful. She looks about 25 and she’s 47! Isn’t that incredible!? You know he has an Indian girlfriend TOO. He likes to have one of each colour. Isn’t that awful?! Oh I meant to say, I got a phone call from Daddy’s nurse. She said she took him on an excursion out of the house today. She said she feels like they’re getting on really well... Oh! You mustn't  say things like that, because we simply can’t afford her”. The husband's voice elevates by an octave… His wife's takes on a razor-like quality. I hated them from the moment they started talking. I find it easy hating strangers.

But I digress... Where presence and looks and people are concerned, analysis is fatal, but common. To pick out the cheekbones and mentally test those puppet-string ligaments is to consign oneself to clinical madness of eugenics. Physical attraction is a science, a set of social unspoken laws, a Rule of Thumb. These are the arcane laws, which consign beauty, like so much gold filigree, to pianists’ fingers and goosenecks. The only exception to these laws, 'Transcendent', are the eyes. The translators of things to thoughts. To make eye contact and fearlessly fling oneself into those twin-sinking wells of the skull, is to step into a crucible, volcanic, capable of creating a primal heat so concentrated, that outside of empirical lab conditions, consciousness evaporates, and there is nothing. Nothing but the yawning gravitational pull of a black hole.

This is, I think, what happens when you fall in love... Or maybe not. I could find significance in anything if I needed to...