"Pedestrian" T.Allen-Mercado 2010I like to think of my representational Self as a simplified if not simple version of who I truly am. Years of misunderstanding and being misunderstood have honed my knack for breaking down the most complex emotions and situations into the simplest-or at best, most greatly-understood-by-all terms.
Take cars for example, or more specifically cars and drivers. Thursday, November 18, 1982, I was struck by a car. I was walking from my house to school in an unusually frantic rush. That morning, I had to double-back after realizing I'd forgotten my music notebook and flute; my music teacher-wonders if I should name her, but opts against it since I hear she's transitioned. RIP, MB.- could best be described as a sadist.
On the previous evening somewhere in our shared Universe, a young broker closed a promising deal, and drank quite heavily in celebration. So heavily in fact, that he'd overslept and was also in an unusually frantic rush-not to mention, probably still intoxicated. Each of us subconsciously justifying our haphazard means to an end, ended at the cross section of 50th street and Broadway; metal versus me.
The physical healing process was lengthy, but the emotional scarring was even more daunting. Surely I could just look both ways next time, but something about being that vulnerable again counteracted all logical thoughts and processes. I remember feeling saddened by it and wondering how he could have been so selfish and how could I have been so irresponsible. I even apologized to my grandmother as the ambulance wheeled me into the emergency room, at the hospital where she'd held residency for over 35 years.
I thought about that day and the experience often across the years: perspectives evolving just as I was. I never shared it with laypeople, not wanting to be that person, you know the one. I realized early on that I was sensitive, and that sensitivity is seen as an affliction of sorts, particularly a sensitivity to one's own needs. These days the experience is one of a few standards in my social interactions-for-"normal"-people translation manual...(to be continued)
What's with the "to be continued"? You see, I have a trunk show May 1st-Pauses for applause. Of course, I will need to make jewelry for it. And, since I must make jewelry, I have a sudden and uncontrollable urge to write and paint instead. Rolls eyes, grimaces, sighs and exhales heavily. I'm allowing myself moderate amounts of all, lest I go mad-or just become very er...um, "unsparkly".
Take cars for example, or more specifically cars and drivers. Thursday, November 18, 1982, I was struck by a car. I was walking from my house to school in an unusually frantic rush. That morning, I had to double-back after realizing I'd forgotten my music notebook and flute; my music teacher-wonders if I should name her, but opts against it since I hear she's transitioned. RIP, MB.- could best be described as a sadist.
On the previous evening somewhere in our shared Universe, a young broker closed a promising deal, and drank quite heavily in celebration. So heavily in fact, that he'd overslept and was also in an unusually frantic rush-not to mention, probably still intoxicated. Each of us subconsciously justifying our haphazard means to an end, ended at the cross section of 50th street and Broadway; metal versus me.
The physical healing process was lengthy, but the emotional scarring was even more daunting. Surely I could just look both ways next time, but something about being that vulnerable again counteracted all logical thoughts and processes. I remember feeling saddened by it and wondering how he could have been so selfish and how could I have been so irresponsible. I even apologized to my grandmother as the ambulance wheeled me into the emergency room, at the hospital where she'd held residency for over 35 years.
I thought about that day and the experience often across the years: perspectives evolving just as I was. I never shared it with laypeople, not wanting to be that person, you know the one. I realized early on that I was sensitive, and that sensitivity is seen as an affliction of sorts, particularly a sensitivity to one's own needs. These days the experience is one of a few standards in my social interactions-for-"normal"-people translation manual...(to be continued)
What's with the "to be continued"? You see, I have a trunk show May 1st-Pauses for applause. Of course, I will need to make jewelry for it. And, since I must make jewelry, I have a sudden and uncontrollable urge to write and paint instead. Rolls eyes, grimaces, sighs and exhales heavily. I'm allowing myself moderate amounts of all, lest I go mad-or just become very er...um, "unsparkly".
Peace
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