How different it is to meet the writer or in the street. You see them as if with a valise, carrying around in plot, surrounded by ideas. It's not easy to divorce the person, from his or her body-of-work...

...I look into your eyes and see the whole studio. And should I venture to ask, How does it go? It's in follow up to what I've already supposed.... the aire-of-confidence or self-defense written-in; the reflexive checking for pocket pen, the abstracted friendly nod, and catching of the breath, in secondary conversation with one's self...

Yes it's difficult to meet another artist in the street.

01.31.23

Describe someone to me Challenge @HelenaTherese

I sat by the fire in the small, dimly lit restaurant, staring at the colorful vase of flowers adorning my table’s center. I was so mentally exhausted from the week of work that my mind could scarce think on anything except the glass of wine that would soon be mine. It was much needed to alleviate the stress running rampant through my body this evening. A young, flirtatious waiter had taken my drink order, but I had not given him a second glance, so preoccupied was I with the disaster of my workweek. It was hard to dwell on much of anything else.

An older gentleman approached my table with a bottle of Château Pape Clément Pessac-Léognan. I was treating myself tonight, and felt I had earned it. As the waiter poured a small amount of the aromatic wine into the crystal glass, I took note of his aged hands. They were strikingly beautiful in a less than usual way. One could easily see that he had used them for something more than serving wine over the long years; they were weathered and worn, much like his wrinkled face.

As I studed the hands that carefully grasped the expensive wine bottle, I was intrigued by the volume of character embodied in them. I wondered what work they had performed during all their years on this earth. They were riddled with protruding veins: it was as if I could feel the blood that pumped through each one.

Distracted, I forgot to taste the wine in front of me.

“Signorina,” the waiter prompted. “Would you prefer something else? Is the wine not to your liking?”

I was momentarily transfixed while I watched him rub his left index finger and thumb together as he awaited my response. Was this something he’d done nearly all of his life or merely a nervous response?

“My apologies. The wine is perfect,” I quickly offered after a sip of the red wine.

The waiter grasped the wine bottle with both hands, so carefully that I surmised he thought it an irreplaceable treasure. Tesoro mio. I smiled at the comparison. My treasure. Yes, this man appeared to treasure the wine as if it were a newborn babe in his care.

I noticed his fingers were long, lean, and elegant despite their evident rugged texture. It was more than obvious they had performed some type of manual labor prior to his work as a waiter, although I could not guess what it had been. Had he been a carpenter, a mason, a butcher, or even an artist? My mind filled with images of a life hard-lived and yet challengingly productive. No, this man had not lived a life of privilege.

“My name is Bella. Might I know yours?” I asked suddenly.

The waiter looked at me in surprise, but then he stood tall and made a respectful bow before he replied. “Sì, Signorina. My name is Gabriele. Gabriele de Rose.”

Gabriele. I knew that the name Gabriele was often associated with healing because of its reference to the Archangel Gabriel. At the thought, an unusual vision immediately crossed my mind: this man’s rugged, strong hands making contact with me and a profound peace ensuing.

I continued to watch beneath my lashes as Gabriele rested his hand ever so slightly on the edge of the table as if to steady himself. The scattered brown age spots on his hand was in stark contrast to the crisp, white table cloth and also revealed he was at least in his sixties. What on earth had propelled a man who obviously had worked most of his life to take a job as a waiter when he should be reaping the benefits of his previous labor? My heart suddenly plummeted, so grave was the concern that his life’s savings may have evaporated and led him to such a path. Furthermore, had I caught the trace a discernable tremor that ran lightly through his fingers. Was he ill? Oh, but I hoped not.

It was exceedingly odd to find such weathered hands so attractive, but still, I did. There was a timeless elegance and beauty of purpose exuded in every gesture or movement they made, including the rubbing together of the index finger and thumb. Like a moth drawn to a flame, I longed to reach out and touch him for some inexplicable reason, but I restrained the impulse as I knew it would be inappropriate and make him uncomfortable. Instead, I did something else.

“Hello, Gabriele. It’s very nice to meet you,” I said and extended my hand.

For a moment, he seemed surprised, but then his face broke into a smile that encompassed its entirety. His eyes began to twinkle, changing his appearance and making him appear years younger than the secrets revealed by his weathered, wrinkled hands. This man had surely been quite handsome in his former years.

“Hello, Signorina. It is very nice to make your acquaintance,” Gabriele said as he accepted my hand. "Please, enjoy your meal, Signorina. And I sincerely hope you will feel much better very soon, Isabella," he added. With another bow and a slight wink, he quickly headed to the rear of the restaurant, disappearing behind a door.

Amazed, I watched him walked away. How did he know how stressed I was feeling? And how did he know my given name was Isabella? I'd only given him 'Bella' when I'd introduced myself. I could still feel the warmth from his strong handshake. Endorphins had already begun to flow through my body, and the stress I felt was beginning to slowly dissipate. Perhaps the vision I'd experienced only moments earlier had not been a precipitous one. No, I was sure the fact this man’s name was Gabriele and that his hands were so beautifully made was not the least of coincidences.

I was still a bit confused as I looked down at my wine glass, but a smile began to suffuse my face; it reached all the way to my tippy toes. It was a good feeling after such a long week. Indeed, perhaps the week had not been such a dismal failure and just maybe my faith in the universe had been restored. Something unexpected and wonderful had occurred this evening, and I found myself on the receiving end of it all. It was not every day, after all, that one met an angel with wondrous, healing hands. And because of it, life suddenly seemed full of endless possibilities.

Wow! Just look at you!

I like how you're radiating with

such a dazzling glow

when you know the truth!

That you're not ugly, stupid

or worthless, living without

purpose.

Would you allow me to tell you

the truth?

I'd like to bless your ears with

these adjectives that describe

you.

You're special...pretty smart,

quite beautiful, definitely worth

a lot.

Living without a purpose, no!

You exist with a purpose and plot - to make ripples of good

in a suffering world tainted with

damaging lies that cause hurt.

I've come to the end but you're

just beginning, aren't you?

Now then, go spread the truth

to someone else just like you.

And wow! Just wow!

Did I happen to mention I like

the way you smile when you

know the truth?

his name is Chad or Brad. he's on a date at Starbucks with a girl who looks like she really wants to like him. he couldn't care less - or is that what he wants you to think? he sits like a guy who knows his trust fund will get him through his twenties and maybe beyond, or a surfer who knows he's secure in his masculinity even though he only started surfing in order to prove that, most likely to himself. there's no way to know what he's really thinking because his eyes have a carefully nonchalant expression, which he holds when the girl starts talking with her hands.

Chad or Brad is wearing knee-length khaki shorts with a frayed hem and flip flops, with a nondescript white tee shirt that is neither baggy nor tight, and does nothing to hint if he has a personality. his slight smirk suggests he wants you to guess how many women he's laid in the last two days. he probably called each of them an Uber after each girl talked about her feelings.

he is a mystery that you could crack by asking him to name his pronouns, to which he would either laugh and not know what pronouns are, let alone his pronouns, which seems the most likely option. he could also say what they are, which would make the maze of Chad or Brad's mind a bit more hard to solve. but sophisticated he is not. he shakes hands with the girl, who is wearing too much make-up, and leaves. I almost feel sorry for her. but then I remember she had just met a Chad or Brad, and she's better off dating someone with fewer Mommy and commitment issues.

We met online by pure coincidence. Just two out of the fifty-something people participating in some random conversation about each others struggles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a notification. ding! "Bòkko has sent you a friend request. [Accept] [Decline]

I remember seeing that username. It was one of the people in the online discussion. 'Hmm,' I think to myself after checking out their profile (which you should always do when you get a friend request online), 'They seem interesting enough, why not?'' I click [Accept], And no more than a split second later, they've sent a message.

"Hey there! :)" They said. Slightly surprised at their speedy messaging, I responded.

"Hello! Nice to meet you :D" I reply. Somehow, we instantly clicked. We spent the whole night talking and joking, and that night, after about three week's worth of restless sleep, I slept soundly. Perhaps too soundly, because the next day I woke up at 1:13 in the afternoon, with five unread messages from Bòkko. Over the next few days, we seemed to get to know each other quite well. She was an open book, and if you know what to look for, so am I. They are a great friend, and we compliment each other like burgers and fries (an odd comparison, I realize as I look back and edit this). I know it's only been a few weeks since I've met them, but I may like them more than just a friend. Maybe it's too soon to tell. Regardless, they are my friend and I love them for putting up with my nerdy shenanigans.

whatever it means to have a type, i wouldn't have thought she was mine. but she's softer than she lets on. she's stubborn and kind. she's caring in a way that tries to hide and she's more scared than i thought.

she works almost every day and her hair falls so it's framing her face. she wears her hair up except for when she's home and her favourite clip to use is marbled black and white. and she's so beautiful it pricks my skin.

Male. 6’ “2 . Medium brown skin,

full beard mustache, very nicely groomed. Looks just as handsome in

traditional Thobe as in western suit.

Gentleman in public, charismatic, romantic and passionate.

Caring loving father and son.

Do not underestimate him he is still

a Lion of the Desert!

I think what makes me most curious about them is their contradiction.

It's something difficult to explain but deeply fundamental to their personality.

I don't know if this is just a human thing but regardless, the amount of conflict in this person is so baffling, so amusing, so tragic.

I've known them years now so I know what I'm talking about.

I don't understand how they can exist as they do, being ripped apart constantly by two opposite forces.

They argue with themself over the strangest things.

To eat or not to eat..

Anxiety or apathy..

To be or not to be.

That one's a real doozy.

My earliest memories with them are painful.

It's hard when the person who'd shown you the most love in a long time, the love you craved, more than your parents were capable at the time...

It's hard when that person hurts you and then leaves you to deal with that hurt.

It's hard when your mind gets fucked up.

I don't know why we humans do that.

Why do we let our minds get so messed up?

I say this knowing stuff like mental illness kinda just... Happens.

I have issues of my own but I still wonder, sometimes, why either of us let it get this far.

Oh well.

Thrice the age of that point in our lives, she's an interesting person now.

Grown up but definitely too childlike to be called that.

I've watched her go mad more times than I can count.

And when he's happy, I can't help but smile, too.

I wish they could see what I see.

I wish it mattered to them that I want them to live, that I think they deserve to have a good life if they could just stick around and keep reaching for it.

But they want the opposite.

We're two perfect contradictions, you see.

Trapped in battle over everything everything-able

And we do so hate conflict, me and I.

But here we are still.

Another day.

Another week.

Another long, goddamn year of who knows what in store.

Getting to know them has been... A mess.

Good, bad, a mix like everything else life has to offer.

And see, they might feel differently but I don't regret meeting you, self.

Not for one moment.