Ostentatious
On seeing someone more clearly.
When I close my eyes, I see a vision of you in a Buddhist temple in the mountains.
A soft breeze rustles the trees and whirls through a wind chime. Somewhere in the distance, a gong echoes and the smell of incense lingers heavy in the air. I see the monks, bald and dressed in orange, as they shuffle their feet on the stone floors and head into a room where big, golden statues overlook them with smiling faces. I see you too, too young to know better, brown eyes wide with wonder and curiosity and a little judgment.
The monks guide you through the temple, show you how to sit and how to meditate. They show you how to pray. I see the wind blow wisps of hair off your face, as you sit cross-legged and stare straight at me with such a familiar look, I could’ve known you then like a brother.
But I didn’t. And I wasn’t there and it wasn’t how you described it, but maybe it was. I see this picture of you whenever I reminisce. I see you more clearly there, as a boy with a mission, who set foot in a world he knew nothing about. I see you more clearly as the boy who hid his eccentricities behind lockers and in the pockets of his jeans and jackets. Sometimes I wonder why I can see you so clearly in the past. But I enjoy you in the temple. I like that picture.
In front of me, you stand against flashing red lights. I can almost hear the engine roar behind you. Is a train coming? Are you signaling something? Flash forward a couple of months, down in the basement I watch you bob around in the spotlight. Modestly dressed, you jump and frolic through tight spaces pretending that you aren’t relishing in the fact that all the people here, are here because of you. Because you asked them to. You asked me too. Weird that you did.
You see, usually, you’re not the peaceful image in the temple. Usually, you walk around carrying red lights. You sit across from me and talk about yourself, talk about the art you collected, talk about the ex who broke your heart and left you for someone mature. You talk about communism and you rant about the workforce, and you ask me questions but never seem interested in hearing my answers. Or you hear them and grow silent because if it’s not about you it’s not about anything.
That last bit is always disappointing. Sometimes I think I ignore the train that’s coming and keep laying on the tracks.
So in the basement full of people. You call your project Reconnoitering the Rim. I thought it sounded so pretentious, so full of it itself, hell, it isn’t even an original title. I thought it was so typical of you to use such big, fancy words to mask your insecurities. You always used big, fancy words when explaining things to me that didn’t need explaining. If I could take a big, fancy word and describe you what would that word be?
Ostentatious. You do it so humbly though.
You see me from the spotlight, you look up once and then look frightened so you look down, then look up again. I wave to you and you smile. I’m happy for it to end there. An acknowledgment of existence. But you stumble my way when you get a chance.
“Hey, thanks for coming.”
You linger by my side so I lean in for a hug and you reciprocate.
You say:
“I have to pee,” and you put your hands on your face and slide them down, wrinkling your mouth and cheeks.
“There is so much moving around tonight, it’s craaaazy.”
And then you run upstairs, not even a goodbye, a see ya later.
I’m not surprised. Irked. Not surprised. A wave would do. You open your mouth and nothing comes out. You always have to take the extra step, little Catholic boy guilt I guess.
You place a small, old television in front of the white canvas set up in front of the spotlight, then you hide behind the canvas. A camera is placed on you so we can see you from the tiny TV. You’re wearing a cowboy hat, a white tank top, a red flannel around your waist. I watch your live video, my thoughts go in and out, each performance I’ve seen so far has been incredibly disappointing. A woman dressed as a worm, narrating how she is a worm stuck inside a baby’s ass, a man who sings a punk song about a turd, you and your tiny TV babbling on about nothing as a gong echoes in the background. Is this what people who study at Bard do? Is this really what you think art is? Why am I here!?
These are the last words we share, you are too busy being popular and I feel the need to take a long, hot shower to wash off all the excrement.
On my way home I wonder what I ever saw in you in the first place. I guess it was the mountains. Funny how a single sentence can shape our opinion of others.
