There is an anchor dream that keeps us grounded. Doesn’t everyone have one? Even if it is just the idea of a good meal, haircut, or a day off, it’s a tomorrow, a hope.
I’m not entirely delusional but I do love a daydream to keep me afloat. I believe in dreams, fantasy and imagination. Without those human abilities there would be no art, no literature, no ideas. I’m a cynical optimist.
It turns out that Supermarket Man (see Visual Highlight/January 24) is married. It makes no difference if I imagined his look or if I held a stare. C’est la vie, c’est l’amour, I will soldier on. I am a soldier of hope, of love and of life. True, it all sounds corny and embarrassing, but how do I speak of love and fantasy as an adult without it sounding a tad desperate or deluded?
Lately, I’ve had to deal with some very difficult “human” dilemma’s- the kind most (if not all) will have to deal with. In the past week, each night I would mantra myself to sleep and each morning certain lyrics to three different songs immediately popped into my head one right after the other:
“Stranded at the drive-in, branded a fool, what will they say Monday at school…”
“Come on in…grave architecture, walk the marble malls, the monuments of those that fall…”
“…And rat poison, the volatile Molotov says.”
Upon yet another return from the desert, I took my hike and went to the market. Yes, I wondered if my dreamboat would be wandering the aisles but as usual by the time I got to the meat and wine aisle, I’d forgotten. I was early- but there he was. Uncertain of my well-being, I turned my cart around and went in another direction. Then I thought I was acting silly so I went on with my usual routine. But this time (clearly with a sense of foreboding) I did not look up, I kept my head down, the brim of my ranger hat covering my eyes, and went straight to the checkout.
As I made my way to the exit, I put my fantasy to death and asked Bakery Girl whom the mysterious tatted gent may be. She gave me his name and with a sigh said, “He’s married.” I chuckled and said, “Of course.” Then she adorably said we should hunt for men together this summer. Again I chuckled, tipped my brim and made my escape.
His forearms will no longer be mine to caress. I will not bury my face in his cashmere sweater for comfort and sensuality. I will not discover his terrible taste in music or any annoying traits. I will never know if he has English teeth.
Being exceptionally tired today, for a moment the wind was taken from my sails. I felt beaten but not foolish. He will still be my visual highlight at the market and I will keep my shopping schedule, but I just might wear a tight skirt and heels to mix it up and feel pretty. It isn’t a bar, it’s a market and I feel safe there.
I am easily entertained.
Scott Lombard said:
Arrrrrr Captian Ahab… this whale was gray, not white… I have high hopes that you will spear the elusive White Whale… Even with your peg leg, hook hand and battle scars. Ahab was undaunted, and fucking nuts(like you), and rumor has it he harpooned his elusive foe and rode him off into the sunset and then deep, deep, deep into the purple majestic sea.
Tie him to the mast and let the gulls pick his eyes out!
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