I Need Some Fresh Eyre

In which Ms. Blue Jeans balances bohemian with bourgeois and tries to live the Snoopy dance.

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Location: Charlottesville, VA, United States

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Pro

There is no con in my conversations.
We report back and forth, diligently, brows furrowed, like reporters in a serious storm with technically difficult earpieces. We stand awkwardly in clothes too thin for the weather, deafly winding out words for the listeners at home. You can see the blankness in our eyes; we are trying to fill empty rooms.
In the absence of interlocuters, we have forgotten how to stop talking, how to respond with anything but "Hello? Are you there?" Maybe he would make fun of me for saying so, but that seems like more of a meta-question at this point that a residual response to faulty cell phones. Are you there, Jake?
Let me be clear. This is a question I am not allowed to ask. It is counter-productive for me to be displeased; it borders on un-American. Papers remain ungraded, plans bottleneck in the air, when I report from the front: Hello? One less specter of ignorance is beaten back. I may remain silent or I may spill out a staccato play-by-play of a day lived largely in my head. I don't know why I never thought to wonder if the woman in a one-woman show forgets how to speak to someone warmer, solider, more questioning, than the dusty dark.
And this entry I'm caressing into a spit-colored keyboard that's warmer than the air in the apartment, this is just another monologue, one that I have to translate into glowing, passive-aggressive quiet. I am sealed up when I have the telephone pressed to my ear, tense and pigeon-toed like a tween on a blind date and teetering on the verge of apocalypse.

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