Followan august thursday last week. 10:30 am. i need to accompany and support. first sight. a painting of a woman, large prominent features, wings, surreal, tall as me.
two women assistants looked at me looking. one pointed with a long finger and i imagined, some kind of instrument used for cutting dense overgrowth in a jungle far away from central jersey. she pointed to a waiting, waiting room of varying comfort level of chairs, none soft and cushiony. a lonely box of kleenex on table near a book, ‘art of survival’, binder broken, pages ready to evacuate. anatomical paintings on wall; two half globes, america and australia. two lockets with small pictures of women. two half globes of a green mossy substance, small dinosaurs and dragons walking precariously on side. a painting of a planter covering a wide chest expanse, a vine escaping. reminded me of a bean stalk. i was jack for sure. looking around, wondering, imagining, asking myself questions. what if? why am i the only testosterone person here?(just the word i thought of too) music piped in through speaker directly over my head (what used to be my soft spot). my day of crossing canal coincidentally close. not just music, no elvis. no rap. no dusty springfield. no iris dement. no voices. lots of piano. 5 hours of this music. not music but a dirge dragging on. i was in the land of funereal thoughts. couldn’t help it. outside the window to my left, a courtyard separating a one story building with all glass walls and no people about. one lone tree notably branch neutered and not moving or blowing in the wind. i wondered if the operation made it lethargic. the sky was uncannily blue. not a cirrus or cumulous cloud for 5 hours. not one passing by to change view. why was i the only male here? the colors all around were beige, green and white. chairs were too. i was feeling ominous, beige and white and sickly.
a woman walked in with a clipboard. filled out a form. i was busy reading a primer on hemingway, the particular page about living life, experiencing and inventing. i was where i never dreamt to be. no eye contact with the woman. i think it was mutual, perhaps for me out of privacy respect. another woman walked in, dropped belongings and paced back and forth endlessly. i understood. i felt. that’s it. i started feeling things like never before. was i invading a private world. i still waited for gender company which never came. why was i the only male? i walked outside office looking for gender company. even my gender’s washroom, no gender company. the silence of a washroom, water splashing. strange but i was noticing things i never noticed. something was happening. surreal air in the conditioning system.
back to waiting room. even a crying baby would’ve worked to break an eerie silence. more women and clipboards. i started noticing faces. a sadness. a fear. a silence. one woman sat facing me. i tried to bury myself in book. there’s only so much clinical hemingway to absorb in an hour. an assistant walked in and handed that woman a large folder of x-rays or something. a few muffled words. a face left with no emotion. i saw fear. i wasn’t there. i was silent but felt i was changing. i think i was resolving to notice things in my world for the rest of my time in it. i couldn’t help it. i was changing. i hoped for gender company. none would ever come. another woman and a clipboard. another what if for me and then another one. hours passed. i didn’t even want one of the butter cookies on a tray in kitchenette(what a strange word, kitchenette). i wanted no water. i wanted no movement. i just noticed a painting was not perfectly level and the neutered tree which i realized was probably my gender was still not moving. maybe there was no wind. a mighty wind would win branch movement. i wondered about this special kind of place and a special kind of fear and it’s gender tender specialty. the dirge music annoyed but i knew why it was there. i noticed i’d been there a long time. patients have come and gone and i still sit, hemingway now resting near the lonely kleenex box. if i wrote tissue box would readers know? why am i the only male here? why is there such loneliness here? why am i so lonely? why am i still here? why hasn’t one of the pointing fingers come in to reassure and point me out?
finally an assistant. “just coming out now” i noticed her face, then a whisper, “we have to come back for a biopsy at 2:45pm” we drove around then some lettuce with balsamic to masticate, kills time. back in waiting room. more women no men. more clipboards. more fear. more noticing details. i was never so quiet for so many hours. a few more hours. more, what if? i wondered about erectile dysfunction and if that gets more money for research than where i am. there are no words as hard as i try to describe my evolution and revolution. i’ll notice and feel and be a better human. promise to myself.
lasting thoughts: a day without male company. a day of fear, unknown, feeling, noticing and thinking about words. two hours ago on this day of my birth, writing words, praying and communing. then a simple phone call that things are alright. happy birthday calvin. Best Gifts are simple life things. i noticed that.
You reached deep down for this blog; seems very personal, I am not sure if fiction. Melancholy rhythmic poetic syncopation timbre…until the phone call…new birth..wildflower.
Comment by Dolores — August 23, 2010 @ 10:12 pm
I was with you in another time but better surroundings with stacks of magazines that were of no interest to me and were way too old for the information to be relevant. Fancy tea cups for coffee and tea, cookies and a separate library with booklets on survival. Nice white, waffle robes and spray deodorant in the dressing room. But no ice packs for the soreness caused by the clamping of one’s tender body parts between two cold glass plates. Candy at the check in desk and many women inside in white robes. Our identity lost in light classical music and spray deodorant as a treat after submitting to being pressed by the glass plates. If a man were to sit through this he missed the real show. Of course, he never saw any such thing done to male body parts as he could see inside one of the little doors where a technician in white invites woman in to be pressed by the cold glass plates. We come out and sit to see if the doctor in the back room will find a reason to press up more or set an appointment to invade with some needles into body parts a man would rather fondle and a woman would rather free from the bondage of fancy, laced torture garments. These are white too. Is there something about breasts that requires white coats, robes, walls and white noise music? It is a brave man who sits and waits and a braver woman who endures these visits. It is a a thoughtful and supportive, modern man who comes with and waits. Most woman suffer these visits and the waiting for answers alone.
Comment by Brenda W — August 25, 2010 @ 3:02 am