WWWBT 16 – H and the auto-irony
I have always liked to stare at the sky. I remember tuning in with nameless constellations at night, when sleep was still far away and I was eight. Or nine. And I was a little closer to the sky.
I grew up in a small mountain town in the center of the country. I was crossing the street to buy bread and on the left, there they were! Compared to Everest, they are small dwarfs, but to a little girl crossing the street to buy bread they were the highest and the most beautiful mountains in the world. With their snow covered peaks and their hiding behind thick clouds during unfortunate – weather-wise – days, they were exhaling a certain witticism that I’ve been trying all my life to acquire… To no avail!
On those days, chilly winter days in the Desert, the sky seemed closer than ever! Or someone really went up there, dusted a little all the warmth of the summer, and all of a sudden, as if indeed the sky was closer – but not because we were higher, I mean on a mountain or anything, but the sky had literally been dragged or pushed down closer to the ocean (that’s a nice image, don’t you think?), I could count almost ten stars if I squinted and tried really hard!
I was sitting on the balcony last night with H, and tried to put all this into words. I think I must have said something similar, though for sure I was not that fluent. If I don’t open my mouth, words are more colourful and phrases slither mischievously like a Basilisc on red wine. Unfortunately, until we evolve accordingly so we can communicate telepathically, I have to open my mouth and utter these words, which would break loudly just like the Magic Mirror would, had Ugly Betty taken a glimpse in it. (see, I had to open my mouth to have another sip of red wine…. the last phrase makes no sense… but I like it!).
I haven’t written in a long time and obviously, you don’t know who H is.
Once upon a time, almost ten months ago, I met H. Lara had invited him to the last Christmas party. Tall, brunet, dreamy – both from a psychological (meaning a little introvert) and aesthetical point of view, H had become a good friend. A very good friend. Obviously, at one point I got so infatuated with him that it hurt! Not because he had shown any interest in me. On the contrary! Mostly, because I was feeling very comfortable with him. Because I could be me, no dissimulation. No cheap games, no eyelashes battering, no lip gloss and not too many euphemisms. But then, after he had explained me, wordlessly, and very emotionlessly, that he had no romantic interest in me whatsoever, I concluded I needed him. As a friend I can always count on. Not for spooning me at night in bed, but for almost anything else. I had a faint recurrence when he started growing a beard, but one thing my father taught me (actually, the only one), is that you cannot force someone to love you. So, we continued meeting, watching movies together, had lunches or dinners, drinking wine or beer, talking about faith and agnosticism, erotic art and achromatopsia, depression and money, Star Wars and Swedish cinema, and many other things that either I don’t remember or they’re not worth being listed here.
That particular winter evening, besides counting invisible stars, and empty bottles of red wine, I would have liked to convince H I was Claudia Schiffer and invite him in my bedroom. For younger readers, Claudia Schiffer is/was a blonde German model; and no, I wouldn’t necessarily want to look like her, but at least have her body fat. Certain movements among the silky sheets require a specific body fat… otherwise the sheets may mimic indelible tsunamis… And the only indelible images I would like H to keep are those of my perfectly coordinating movements in the kitchen – throwing pancakes in the air, magically catching them on a plate, seasoning them with three kinds of jam and… You didn’t expect this, right? The truth is that I’m neither Claudia Schiffer, nor Martha Stewart. I’m just a slightly depressed introvert with a slightly increased BMI, not too much self-esteem and all this is the real reason I’ve been sleeping alone for the past many years. Agreeing that sleeping with the Tomcat doesn’t count.
How to end an auto-ironic text – irony supposedly being the intelligent prelude of eroticism? Maybe it’s better to stick to star gazing, platonic friendship with very interesting men who are not interested in me, day dreaming about Victoria’s Secret catwalk parading bodies and struggling to finish a book about cyber paraphilia (Mary Aiken – The Cyber Effect).