Of Human Consciousness
Upper West Side
“It is the hat that matters most,”
she says, as she careens forward, a near miss. A Hermes-like bicycle delivery
guy brushes past. “If the hat is not consistent to the period, then the
whole costume will be off and all of the purists will notice. Of that, I
can guarantee you.”
She is walking with Benton down Madison
Avenue on a sunny late afternoon. Sun in the city seems a rarity. And Benton. What in the world would she
do without him? He has been here for her. That he has. Not in a way that
she had expected to need him, but the way he came to her years ago and filled
in as that missing puzzle piece in her life, she could have never
expected. Benton was a surprise, a gift. The kind of gift someone
gives you, and you wonder, “What could they mean?”. Later on, you
understand exactly what they meant. They were anticipating your needs,
which is quite a gift in itself.
They make their way across the
street at the crosswalk, headed in the direction of the sun and the production
company they had been working for. She
looks him up and down as she follows behind him. Benton, wearing his
usual attire (khakis and a crisp white shirt) has always managed to look so
fresh. No matter the weather, his hair is always perfectly cut and styled, and
his shoes are polished to an opaque shine. His body is like a metrosexual
marble statue, created just to express the 21st century human ideal
until the end of time. One wonders if he sits at home when not working
and preens like a peacock, cleaning his feathers for the next conquest: a technique that has been well-proven to
produce the optimum results.
An older Chinese lady with a hot dog cart is stuck on the curb. She hurries
over to help her lift it up and onto the sidewalk. Pamela notices she is
wearing a pair of those soft black cloth Mary Janes with the rust-colored soles
that were one of those coveted exotic Chinese finds of the youth back in the
80`s. Hers are old, and the backs of her shoes are crumpled into
accordions, her pink socks permanently grey from months or even years of
splashing puddles and the tenacious grime of the road. Benton continues
to walk, oblivious to anything happening around him. Typical Benton, his legs
mechanically working like the geared mechanisms in a factory assembly line,
just never stops.
She laughs.
“Would you wait a second?”
She rushes forward in her high
heels, still nimble and balanced at the mature age of 48.
“Ok… we are not late. In fact,
we are early! Where are you rushing off to?”
She is a bit perturbed, but used to
it. Benton is a man on a mission. Any mission, he will be there and
will not fail. She catches her breath beside him and says,
“As I was saying, we need to
emphasize the fact that this film will be different.”
“I know, Pam. I heard you the
first time. Do you doubt me? I would think you would know by now
that I have no trouble giving you what you want.”
She grumbles. “Ah, but
sometimes, you are much too confident. That is what worries me right
now. I get the feeling that you are not as serious about this project as
I am.”
The last project they worked on
together was a disaster to finish. The final product was breathtaking and
wildly innovative, but the journey through completion was a horror. So
many details left undone at the last minute, so much rushing and so many
complicated transactions going on. It made her head spin. He makes her
head spin. She does not want another one of those projects. She is
determined to lead this one, and Benton will just have to follow her lead.
She will make sure of it. Somehow, she wonders, will I be consuming
my words like communion wafers, hidden on the roof of my mouth? Benton is one
brilliant force to be reckoned with…well, deftly managed, if she was being
honest.
Benton is similar to someone, she
thinks to herself. How funny life can be. One person leaves your life
because you realize that they were no good for you and the “trying harder” part
is only leaving you completely emptied, then another comes along and is so
similar to the last. One would think that you would stop for a second and
say, “Wait a minute! This feels similar”, but we never do, do we? We merely
carry on, having parallel relationships all of our lives. Almost like we
were given an imprint at birth and that is what we would follow until we
finally got it right. Benton was that “got it right” person. The
one who untangles the misunderstandings, inconsistencies, and insensitivities
of the past, the one who ties the strings together, makes things right, and
never, ever gives up. He can be an ass. No doubt about that
one. But, he is also her hero. She would not have come nearly as
far with her goals without him.
Before Benton, there was Trudy
(short for Theresa). Yes, Trudy is a strange nickname, but it matched her
persona. She did always tell the truth. Pamela could trust her, but she
turned out to be someone she could not rely upon. A train wreck, they
would say. Her life was a bomb site, the crater left after an asteroid
hit, the derailed train car hovering off of the side of a lurching suspension
bridge. Every day something new, but not in a good way with Trudy.
Never in a good way. Any phone call coming from her end was sure to
result in a visit to the hospital, the funeral home, or the jail in order to
bring bail money and/or a change of clothes, and sometimes, these would be her
only clothes.
They arrive at Lincoln Square as a
monstrous art deco skyscraper with 6 elevators and 130 floors emerges before
them. The offices of CCM Productions begin on the 128th floor,
with the more senior executives as you approach the top. They pass the
doorman who tips his red hat with fingers like sausages, quickly hiding his
magazine as we drift swiftly by. Pamela is always nervous as she enters
these elevators. She adjusts her stockings and skirt and holds her chin
higher. Benton waits, resting on his elegance, at the elevator
keypad. He glances her way, looking cool and confident, removing his
sunglasses. He turns and gives her a light hug.
“You look worried, my dear. Let me
handle it, and we will be fine.”
She thinks to herself, “Yes, I could
do that, but I won`t this time, not matter how easy it sounds. I must maintain
control. Things will change from this moment forward.”
Pamela checks her reflection in one
of the mirrors along the wall: red hair, thick and brushed to a sheen, rose
lipstick still intact and creamy cleavage visible, yet not too
daring, expression is…. well, doable for now. She is hoping it will change
as she reaches that crucial moment. She steels her backbone, hoping that
strengthening herself physically will, in turn, strengthen her resolve.
And they wait. The secretary
in her tight expensive sweater, mohair perhaps, cold as ice tells them that Mr.
Covington, the man himself, is held up at a meeting. Mr. Covington is an
imposing man. Mid 50`s, medium height and build, balding, but not
well. His demeanor gives one the creeps:
almost “dirty old man” in a way, but with a thick wallet, so it gives
that stereotype a positive twist. Being a woman in this particular
situation is hard, very hard. She continues to meditate on evoking power and
authority, all the while reserving her femininity as a backup tool in case. She
may need it.
Pam, somehow, in that tense waiting
room scene looking down at her shoes, is brought back to the Chinese lady on
the street that day. Her hot dog cart is her dream. If she sells
some hot dogs, she will be content. If she sells even more the next day,
she will be even happier and more satisfied. All the while, she does it all
alone. Utterly self-reliant, she braves the cold of winter and the heat
of summer; her own backbone strong and resilient. What makes her
different than me? Who is this man, Mr. Covington? He could be just
another hungry guy buying hot dogs. For some reason, this thought gives
her a sudden rush of courage and determination. Just think of him as just
another hungry human being looking for his own level of contentment. Just
like the doorman and his magazine, just like Benton and his feathers, even
poor, troubled Trudy, and her lack of clothes.
We all face these moments in our
lives in our own way. Tension, expectation, fear, and apprehension come
over all of us. We are all just puzzle pieces in the big panorama of
life. We have our roles, our own engagement with others. We are all
necessary in the larger scheme of things.
Her mind raced as she sat there in
the charcoal grey office chair, next to the potted orchid, the latest issue of
Vanity Fair, and the picture of a seaside cottage on the wall. This
moment is not unique to her, but it is still hers. It represents a
continuum. If she plays her role well, the continuum remains unbroken and
flowing. She must do her best. She must stay with the flow.
The girl in dusty plum mohair rises
up to open one of the double doors leading to her future. Pamela and
Benton rise; Benton allowing her to enter first. The vast red space
ahead, filled with curtains and bottles and woodwork and glass, collapses and
expands, welcomes and prohibits, coddles and caresses, fondles and ignores, as
she enters, her high heels grazing the carpet carefully.
And there he is. Head held erect,
she greets the hungry man with a firm hand shake and a strong female glance.
His eyes falter a bit, and she notices that maybe, just maybe, Mr. Covington is
in need of a sandwich.
Rockaway Beach
We finally make it to the beach in one piece, after marching like soldiers,
each equipped with our compatible loads on our backs: beach blankets, towels,
umbrellas, food cooler half full with beer, football, sunscreen, blow up
floats, still deflated of course. We help each other to set up our territory
among the scattered blankets around, careful not to upset the others, leaving
the appropriate distance between us.
We sit down in our chairs with our
beers, to relax at last, when, over the sounds of waves and seagulls and
distant music, Carl begins to speak, out of the blue. Ordinarily a very
quiet guy, always reflective, he now becomes animated and engaged, as if the
beach itself has enlivened him:
“By any chance did you see the
crushed and tattered egg that we passed on our way over the stony area of beach
under the trees?”
None of us admitted to having
remembered or even noticed.
“A potential life is discarded there
amongst the stones from its home like a piece of trash on the beach. Discarded
even before it has had the chance to pop its head out and look around to see if
it even likes our world.”
He pauses for a few moments.
“When we were born, did we like it
here? Or did we find the world cold, harsh, unwelcoming, sterile--like a
hospital operating room filled with the scent of betadine and latex and the
faint smell of stale expensive cologne coming from underneath the doctor’s
scrubs? Was that cologne given to the doctor by his wife, carefully chosen to
provoke the desired reaction, primarily from her own physical response to the
scent, not even having touched his skin yet? Does the newborn baby wonder what
all of this means? What were those smells and why did they both appeal to him
and revolt him at the same time? Does the baby want to return to his safe
haven, pull the blanket back up so that he is comfortable again, back to a
place where he did not require a thing? All of his needs were met by his
mother. No questions asked. No intrusion by enemy environmental irritations.
Just bliss. Throughout our lives, do we search for this bliss? Do we wish to
return, forever longing for that which we left behind?”
Carl adjusts his lounge chair so
that he can lie back more comfortably. He looks out to sea for a while.
“Did we even belong here? Or would
someone, our mother, our father, have thrown us out of the nest had they the
choice? The nurses that are present on that day, on that shift, at that hour
and moment, care for us with confident hands. Bathing us, washing away the
afterbirth, allowing us to become one with the present moment in time. We are
not after birth then. We are wiped clean, and our slate becomes fresh and
untethered. We are then, and only then, allowed to become one with the present
moment in time. For the first and only time. Once we are given a name,
placed into the family line, the biological evidence is discarded to make room
for the genealogical, the social and familial hierarchy. So, I ask once again,
do we belong here? or have we been forced here against our will? Did we even
have a choice? Could we actually admit to ourselves and to others that
life is, in fact, the ultimate imprisonment, the biggest lie that we face? And
again, do we even belong here?”
Sophie drops her beer and gasps.
“Carl, that’s enough! What in the
world has gotten into you today? Let’s just enjoy the beach, ok? I didn’t come
here to get all philosophical. Jeez.”
She sighs and lays back down,
flipping over on her stomach. After a moment, she decides to put her earbuds in
her ears, to block out Carl’s musings entirely, nodding her head to the beat
while entering her version of bliss.
John and Carol are still just
sitting there. Listening silently. John is smoking and has a far away look in
his eye. Carol is staring at Carl, admiring his tanned legs, a longing look in
her eye. Carl is still gazing out to sea.
He gets up suddenly, throws open the
top of the cooler and takes out a tuna hoagie. He begins to eat ravenously,
like a man who has been on hunger fast for weeks. He turns towards the ocean,
his back to Carol. He brings the hoagie to his lips and starts to sing. Softly
at first, then louder. People are starting to turn around. The song is not
recognizable, but his voice is stunningly strong. He continues to eat and
tenses his muscles as he belts out the tune. The whole beach watches in awe.
Carl has now become, through his own
devices, the star of his own show, the key player in his own life, if only for
a moment. That particular moment in time. For that moment, his past and future
disappear. He is only himself. Not Carl. Just himself. The guy with the tanned
legs, the voracious hunger, and the limitless spirit.
South Street Seaport
I drape my tie loosely over the back
of the chair after a long day of performing for an audience. Only,
this time, the audience does not know that they are watching me. Are
they watching intently without knowing? Are we all just watching intently
without knowing?
I see myself as creating desire with
every movement I make: when those who watch, subsequently will then wish. This
then leads to desire. When I perform, I create something from
nothing.
I slip on my bra, finally after a
long day of being saggy and limp; breasts pressed against my chest like a
crushed loaf of processed bread. I slip my nightgown on, let my hair
out of the intricate hairstyle I have created to mimic a sort of `metro-sexual`
male, the only male whom I could in fact mimic convincingly. I am tall 5 foot 9
inches, so that helps, and my hips are on the narrow side, allowing me to be
admired for my apparently masculine litheness.
Let me begin from square
one. I am a woman, born a woman, and very happy to `be` a
woman. I am trying on an experiment for size. I wish to
`be` a man. To feel what it is like, to understand through the eyes
of others how a man is perceived, a man feels among others, and how a man copes
with these perceptions. It is not only an experiment of experience;
it is an experiment to prove a theory: that we are shaped by
perception, by our mirroring out in society, not so much by whom we are
inside.
I
have been an actor for 22 years, more in fact if you count the years that I
dreamed of working as one, and even more if you count that fact that I am an
actor and was born as one. I live for my career and do not
mind sacrificing myself in order to embrace another character. In
fact, I revel in it: the ability to feel how others feel, to enter
their psyche, to feel their pain and pleasure.
My experiment has just
begun. I have convinced everyone, No one has given me a sideways
glance at all. They have all treated me with respect and manly
acknowledgement. It is different. It is more of a solid
treatment, therefore less soft, less warm. Do I miss the
warmth? Sometimes. I am now moving on to the next
step. To attempt to seduce a woman, or at the very least, connect
with one as a man. To understand the difficulty in walking the line between
masculine strength and power and that ever-elusive union between two people
without gender. I want to hold masculinity in the palm of my hand,
feel its texture, but then drop it in an instant.
As I hurry to leave the next
morning, pulling another tie off the rack and swiftly looping and tying it
carefully, I notice one thing a little off with myself today. I am
feeling weak. I have lost that initial feeling of aggression that
was so exhilarating at the start of my experiment. I feel reluctant to begin
another day again, but quickly collect myself and my things to exit the haven
of my apartment.
My shoes feel snug and a bit too
clunky as I march down the hall to the elevator. My limbs feel heavy
because of it. I pull my shoulders up strong and ready to face that
sea of faces in the city below. I must remember that this
newfound persona of mine should not be so conscious. If I am to live
as a man, I must feel comfortable within my own skin and not think about the
fact that I am only playing a role. I must rid myself of the awareness that I
am feeling. As an actor, this is the ultimate challenge: to just
drink in another life. I plunge forward into my day, one life consumed in order
to fuel me.
Saranac Lake
I put in a call to book the weekend
of June 4th at the lake house. The receptionist relays to me that there
is only one cottage remaining--Siren’s Song, the house farthest past the long
dock on the left. I book it quickly, excitedly. I gaze and glance around
the room; the orange sponge strangely signaling to me that I need to clean up
the kitchen before she arrives. I look at the clock. She will be here in
an hour. The sponge moves almost on its own from that point on,
channeling my energy.
While
washing and drying the remaining dishes, I become lost in reverie about our
last meeting at the university library. The electrical shock between us
was palpable and shocking, jolting us out of our mundane academic life. I have
a “pull” at the library, so once I had felt that first jolt, I pulled her into
the archive room. Temperature and humidity controlled, white gloves
waiting at the door, we swiftly peeled our clothes off like “just ripe” bananas
and lay down on the floor. Our lust matured, growing more forceful. I
spotted a copy of Keat’s poetry on a shelf a mere 3 feet away from where we
stood. “Could it be a first edition?” I pondered then quickly erased that
strange intrusive thought from my head. I try my best not to laugh as I
position my angel, to admire her curvy white splendor, as she lay spread across
the carpet like a corpse: blonde hair spilled onto avocado, with lips parted in
painful, ecstatic stillness.
Her
signature quiet contemplation quickly transforms into a rapturous rhythm of
sound, and I fear for a moment someone will hear. I cover her mouth with
my hand, impulsively grabbing one of the spare white gloves for her to bite on.
Gasps and cries muffled, we proceed to end our moment of spiritual
elevation on a high note: no biological traces to be found, all neatly
collected in a latex container. I breathe a sigh of relief for the
salvage of my beloved open access to the library and for the continuation of my
masculine freedom. I watch as she dresses-replacing her rosy pink
undergarments, buttoning her jeans as I zip mine quickly. I lay the glove
carefully back in place and caress the Keats book as I pass: “No damage done”.
I drive her home and observe her as she walks to the door, hair flowing
down her back, slightly disheveled; her boots percussive on the concrete.
A car pulls up. Two people get out: an older woman and a man who appears
to be a priest. They enter the same door as she has, priest following behind,
close at her heels. She must live with her mother, I suppose.
When
the time comes and she finally arrives, I tell her about the cottage. We make
plans. She is more beautiful than I remember, away from the fluorescent lights
of the university. She had mindfully thought to bring her toothbrush, and
I spot it in the holder on the bathroom sink. “Huh.” I feel a sharp jab
sear through my chest. A small red object with significance miles beyond its
ordinary utilitarianism.
I proceed to count the days until
June 4th, slashing them with a line on my calendar anxiously, like a kid
waiting for Christmas. I am finding that I am falling in love. I
almost forget to breathe now, and my stomach feels like an empty cavern come to
life with flowers.
June 4th arrives. We unpack our things
at Siren’s Song. Someone had left a green rake by the back door. It had
fallen and jammed into the screening. I carefully remove it and place it
on its side on the front porch. The bugs will come later, but let them come.
I won’t notice.
She
comes up behind me, her hair tied back loosely with a scarf, bright red
perfectly painted toes peeking out innocently from the front of her black
leather sandals. She grabs my hand, leads me to the lake, immodestly
removes her clothes, and dives through the surface of the glassy lake. I
think to hesitate, looking around at the other cottages the surround its
perimeter. As I spy her figure drifting smoothly through the water, I say
“What the hell,” remove my clothes, and enter. The chill of the water
hits me pretty hard, but it is a pleasant shock. She swims to me, red
lips beaded with water, her hair smoothed back to a fawn-colored sheen.
Her skin has just begun to tan. Around her neck rests a small plain
gold cross. I begin to caress and kiss her neck, moving down to take the
cross into my mouth. I taste the harsh metallic coldness as our bodies
begin the melding process. We create an amalgam of our own and the
chemical reaction is synchronic and smooth.
The
water will hide the evidence this time, but I never once consider this.
It is simply this woman and me. It could be any day, any hour, any
lake, and any two people experiencing wholeness and escape, feet off of the
ground, for the first time. And I live for that. I know we all do.
