A conversation

Subtitle: let's not kid ourselves.

What you say (what you mean)

A: Hi (hi.)
B: Hi! (hi.)
A: How have you been? (haven't seen you in a long time and have no idea what's happened to your life.)
B: Pretty well, thanks. Yourself? (well, my boyfriend/gilfriend just left me and I need to find a new place to live ASAP. I hope your life is worse than mine, so I'll feel better.)
A: Doing just fine. (except I'm broke and have had the flu for two weeks. But your lot sounds worse off, so there's that...)
B: Good to hear. Crappy weather we've got. (I can't think of anything to say.)
A: Yeah, no kidding. Hasn't rained like this in weeks. (I can't think of anything either.)
B: Supposed to get better tomorrow. (Ummmmm.....)
A: Yeah, we'll see. This rain sucks! (Ummmm......)
B: Well, I've got to run. We should catch up sometime... (This is getting awkward, so I'm bailing. Let's not have this conversation again any time soon.)
A: Definately. I've actually gotta run too, but I'll drop you a line sometime. (Yay, an exit. Don't wait for my call.)
B: Excellent! Yeah, well, take care! (Glad that's over with!)
A: You too! (Finally got that tosser off my back!)

Why is it that we default to talking about the weather when we've got nothing to say? I don't even buy the argument of weather as the lowest common denominator--why do I write about the weather to penpals or friends far away? It has no actual relevance to anything whatsoever, and why can't we just say what we're thinking?

Big Brother

When I have nothing better to do, I sit on the grass or on a bench and watch people. The people by the river tend to be relaxing, walking slowly, savoring each step like Black Forest cake; or else, they are joggers of all persuasions, ages, and speeds: old ones; young ones; couples with and without strollers; some looking as if they are enjoying themselves and others looking a cross between self-pitying and resolute as they absolve their daily training regimine. In town there are shoppers and strollers, many clutching small children and ice cream cones in the summer; elderly push through the crowds followed by bands of pre-teen girls like a gaggle of mini Paris Hiltons.



It is interesting to observe how people treat the beggars and panhandlers. Someone once told me the only moral or ethnical quandry with which a Western individual is really faced is whether or not to give money to beggars; purely economically, giving change to a beggar will probably not break anyone's bank. Yet not everyone gives: some pretend to ignore the panhandler; others flick their eyes over the mendicant and then, squaring their shoulders and lifting their gaze, march on past without taking further notice; still others sort of sheepishly scuttle by, as if guilty in their decision not to give money. (Personally, I don't give money to beggars because, though I can afford the change or the Euro or two, if I gave change to every beggar I saw, every time I saw one, I would be broke pretty quickly; secondly, if I have spare change I would rather give it to the kid with the recorder).

Rituals of acquaintence are also quite amusing. In France and French Switzerland there are bisous, kisses on the cheek, given to anyone with whom you are on any kind of a named basis, two or three depending on whom you are kissing. Some groups of friends do this; in mixed groups, including Spanish, Italian, French, Swiss, or anyone else likely to trade bisous, as soon as one person starts everyone has to do it. In Germany, mostly, it's hand shaking, except for hugs for friends, and usually only for hello and goodbye. You can tell who is befriended with whom by whether they shake hands or hug each other. Sometimes people get confused, intending to kiss someone on the cheek, but that person wasn't prepared and it turned into a mix between bisous, a hug, and a handshake and everyone laughs awkwardly.

Conversation styles differ greatly. I've noticed, when I am speaking with someone, I tend to watch their mouth. Sometimes I watch their eyes, but extended eye contact tends to freak people out so I quit doing that so much. And when a person talks to me, he or she probably spends 75% of the time looking at the wall behind me or above me, his or her eyes roaming while thinking. Sitting across from someone and carrying on a meaningful conversation is difficult; I would imagine a first date would be much more comfortable walking side-by-side and talking rather than sitting across from one another at dinner, for instance. The individuals who are amusing dinner guests (or good public speakers) not only tell funny stories, they make eye contact or at least sweep their eyes over their audience, visually including and drawing in the listeners.

I often wonder what the stories are behind these lives that I see in town, among friends, or at the river. I am always interested--and grill my coworkers and fellow students--as to what they study/have studied, what they have or have had as a job, where they have been, where they come from and where they are going. I want to know why they moved someone, how they met their significant other, how their parents met, everything. Perhaps my directness is offputting, but I have the sense of learning a little bit of how life works from the reflections of other peoples' lives. Many people have told me I'm not normal--and it's been a long time since someone accused me of being 'Typically American'--and I have no conception of what normal is, except for occasional glimpses into the lives of others or a brush with pop culture. I can't define it, and I can't say I want to be "normal"--aa good friend told me long ago that "being normal is highly overrated". The axiom is true, I think, particularly if normality is defined as conformity. Still, I am interested in what has made people who they are--insofar as the past has predicated the future, if the relationship is causal as well as temporal--in the dubious hope of perhaps discoveing my future in my own past.

I'll let you know in 10 years how it turned out. And maybe I will even look you in the eye.

I am an old woman
Named after my mother
An old man is another
Child whos grown old

If dreams were thunder
Lightning was desire
This old house it wouldve burned down
A long time ago

Make me an angel
That flies from montgomery
Make me a poster
Of an old rodeo
Just give me one thing
That I can hold on to
To believe in this livin
Is just a hard way to go
--Angel from Montgomery (John Prine)