I’m watching JtBM put together a book. Not design one on a computer or staple pages together. I mean really, honestly, and with his bare hands build a book. I watched him cut the paper for the end pages, using an X-acto knife to slice thick cardboard-esque sheets for the covers and then slowly glue it all together. I can’t name the last time I created something. Not with my bare hands. Not something beautiful. Not something that I could hold and cherish and love. JtBM creates like this all the time. He would tell me that it’s never quite enough and second guess his efforts. Like the hardbound journal he made me with a tiny printed song lyrics on the cover and blank, lifeless pages that I can fill with words and pictures and glued in scraps I find in my day-to-day life. He never thinks it’s enough. Or that I don’t like the art he creates with his withered hands. I do. I envy his ability to amalgamate his thoughts, emotions and love into projects. I envy that he has something to hold on to.
Words aren’t as easy to grasp.
But that’s what I tend to be the best with.
And then he switches to making a card for his dad. The whole look on his face changes, as he picks out scraps of paper to create something beautiful. For a moment I wonder if the person he is about to make something for deserves something crafted with those two amazing hands of his. I question what he’s thinking. The light behind him casts this weird, fake halogen glow across the bare scalp that is his head and casts the side facing me in darkness. I wonder what those hazel eyes would tell me if I slid across the carpet and tilted his face up towards the light. What is he feeling at this exact moment? I may ask. I may not. It’s all about timing.
And sometimes I just wonder if I should butt out all together.
Every day life some times seems stagnate. Not in a bad way, it’s as if contentment has settled upon me like a layer of dust in the warm attic where you stored the Christmas ornaments and your son Jimmy’s old Legos. [I would never name a child Jimmy, FYI.] It’s comfortable. I don’t have much to do, except live in this desirable, content state where I just enjoy myself and not worry as much.
What does a 22-year-old college student with a vague future, no job and classes out for 3 months do with their time?
I’ve watched TV.
I’ve written to-do lists.
I’ve enjoyed laying on the couch and frolicking in the sun and playing with animals.
I’ve had a few drinks, had some delicious food. Enjoyed people.
There isn’t much left for me to do.
Except write. Tell the world about sunsets and the silliness of things from my side of the world. As if someone honestly gives a damn.
Currently, I’m watching Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back completely full of the delicious nachos JtBM and I made earlier. [Let me say, best nachos I've probably ever had a hand in slopping together and then chowing on] I just had a laugh over the scene in Clerks where they discuss how Episode V is the best, because it ends on a depressing note.
As I typed that Darth Vader worked his way into Luke’s head and proclaims “Luke, my son, come to me” in that drilling, baritone that every nerd remembers. Then Mark Hamill, with his broken and torn face sits up a bit, his hand hidden by the sleeve of his shirt, though we know it’s not even there, and says “Why didn’t you tell me?” He reminds me of a monk or something having a revelation. Then as if Vader is really God he proclaims, “Luke, it is your destiny.”
Cue Lydia laughter.
Why do I love Star Wars?
I mean, absolutely deeply and truly love Star Wars?
Fuck, if I know.
It’s cheesy. The special effects blow. It’s ass backwards when it comes to storyline. Yet, it’s amazing.
Maybe it’s that in a galaxy far far away is where I feel I belong.
Or maybe it’s just the nerd in me saying “Lydia, it is your destiny.”
(Corny right? Damn right it is.)
Leave a Comment
No comments yet.
Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI
Lydia Emily
