Basement Chronicles

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"There are things we can't recall, Blind as night that finds us all "

--

I'm standing still. In fact, I'm kind of just staring into the distance, trying not to make eye contact with anybody. And now I'm kind of surprised.

I'm at a fundraiser function for the closing of Paul's show, called the Follies. Community sponsors donate however many thousands of dollars to the show, and after the show's run the actors come back and do a "modified" version of the show, including the various sponsors' business and brand names into songs and dialogue. It's a little like watching an hour long jingle, but with pretty decent singing and choreography.

And so the show is over. We've all been herded into a really fancy museum. Large, round tables, covered in expensive cutlery and something decorative in the center. Catered by a couple of the sponsors. Paul mentioned that there would be a buffet, and some bartender is pouring wine glasses as fast as the herd is picking them up. They've even got a cover band.

I happen to be in line for the buffet, though I don't know it. I'm in my n-th level stealth mode, where from my person emanates a very strong "don't look, talk, or otherwise engage me" aura. I wouldn't quite call it social anxiety. I would call it being out of my element and acknowledging such.

These people, while imaginably kind-hearted and "the-arts"-supporting, probably have more money than I'll ever imagine. Reading the pamphlet before the show, I saw that in order to get a mention in the show, you had to donate somewhere around $10,000, or a multiple thereof.

And these people are kinda scary. Dressed in all black, diamonds and other shiny things. The types of people you see in nice restaurants, on special occasions, or at weddings.

And me in jeans that don't fit me very well and a t-shirt that's the dark grey one usually associates with sweating through your clothing. Which, at the moment, trying to blend and be inconspicuous and patient until I can get my relatively undeserved food and get out of there, I probably am.

Before the show it was alright. I slithered through the crowd and sat down. Then it got dark and didn't really matter any more.

But now I'm standing there for everyone to see. It's obvious. I'm not with anyone (Paul's getting changed after the show). I probably snuck in. Somebody should ask him who he's with, which character I supported, how much I donated.

I decide against the wine. First, I don't like wine. Second, I didn't want to cause a scene by having to whip out my ID. Fidget. Look at your cell phone. Oh no, nothing else to fidget with. Panic.

This line needs to move faster.

The servers suspect something. The same one has used me as a "through" person whenever she needed to navigate across the buffet line. The bartenders give me a strange look. This is nerve-wracking.

And then one of the...well, I don't know what her job was. She wasn't wearing a server uniform. She wasn't in the cast. Best I could tell: crowd control. As we were all shuffling into the museum she was directing people with a smile and a hand wave. And by some combination of group intelligence and subconscious training, we began to form a line. I mean, it seemed like the thing to do. Sheep as we are.

And then she saw me in this line.

And she delivered her line of dialogue.

"Sir, there's no rush, there's plenty of food for everybody."

I don't see myself as a hasty person. But then again, I've been staring at myself for twenty some years now, so I guess I'm not the best judge. I'll admit that I'm a fan of the food, and I've been known to eat on occasion. Sometimes in great quantities. But I haven't for a long time. I bike to school every day. I'm in the best shape I've been in...I don't know, many years.

But damn, I still look like a ravenous somebody who's in a hell-bent, headlong dash towards the buffet.

I nod dumbly in agreement. Yes. There is no rush. Slow your goddamn roll. No hurry at all. I mean, heh, it's not like you're exactly going to waste away to nothing. You've got a good buffer going.

You're being too sensitive, she picked you randomly from the crowd. But things like this are rarely random, so then why? What flagged me as someone needing told? How do I stand out? Was it my clothes? My face? My being somewhat overweight among a crowd of actors and otherwise beautiful people?

I wouldn't quite call it being self-conscious. I would call it acknowledging something that everybody else seems to see.

We each have that highly perceptive mechanism people use to tell if somebody is happy, or sad, or apprehensive, or discern any other point on the spectrum of human emotion simply by one's physical appearance. And it is by one's appearance that people can learn more about you than you care for them to know.

That's not right, Josh. Not right at all. Physical appearance only accounts for not even the tip of the iceberg in describing an entire human being. And moreso, Josh, saying you 'know' somebody by what they look like is shallow, and naive, and materialistic, and remarkably insensitive.

I grant you all of that. But that fails to mention that information can be obtained from physical appearance, and that information, when compared to the physical data we've been subconsciously collecting and associating and organizing in our background minds is frightening in its accuracy.

Our minds are more than capable of conceiving of multidimenionsal concepts, and not just those in the geometrical sense. In the physical world, we operate in three dimensions, while observing the passing of time. But in our abstract minds, we comprehend information with seemingly limitless number and dimension. The intricate systems by which our perfect complexity finds equilibrium extend beyond what can be defined by one or two or three dimensional means.

And so like an artist's rendition of three dimensional objects on a piece of paper through tricks of perspective and shadowing, our bodies are like geometrical projections of ourselves on a three dimensional plane, depicted by mass and movement over time. I admit, just as two dimensional images can inaccurately display their three dimensional subjects, a person's physical appearance can belie their truer nature. But that doesn't mean you can't tell a hell of a lot about the picture they draw.

All this to say that I have no reason to believe that people don't analyze me physically like I do to them. And as much as I hate to admit it, I treat people differently based on their physical appearance. What follows is that I have to accept when people do the same to me in turn.

I've been somewhat embarassed about my body since I gained considerable weight many years ago, all the way back to elementary school. Developing terrible eating habits (times/day, proportion, speed of consumption), combined with a obscene lack in exercise due to my hobbies (and now my profession), I maintained a weight that has been described as 'skookum', and probably in a bad way.

Admitting that is difficult, not only because it is embarassing, but because of what I've been taught. We are taught to avoid being self-conscious, to ignore each other's physical appearances and instead focus on 'inner beauty'. We are taught that someone's diet or weight or eating habits are a taboo subject, only to be mentioned in dire circumstances, or whispered behind other's back's. We leave it up to the individual to manage their own eating and exercise habits. And if the individual outwardly claims that they are overweight, or that they are trying to lose weight, or something along those lines, the expected response is 'Oh, you don't need to lose weight,' or 'You look just fine.' We can't nod in agreement or encourage them without risking hurting their precious feelings. We can't support them in their endeavor, whether they need it or not.

I'm not saying we should go around calling each other 'Fatty McFatt' (assuming they are of Celtic heritage). That would be terrible. I'm just pointing out something I realized recently in our culture with respect to self-image. I also realize that there is a huge spectrum of other related problems that I haven't begun to touch. My look at things here only offers a glance at my experience, and so should be viewed just as such.

The line is really long, so I have time to think about this. The lady continues to welcome people in the door, urging patience against insatiable hunger. So I just wait in my line. I look at all the great food. People continue to look at me awkwardly, wondering why I'm there. For what reason I don't know, and at the moment, I really don't care.

I take a chicken-bread-thing, and load up with some salad. I go and sit in a quiet corner and finish. This really isn't my place. I head for outside. After a confusing conversation with the doorman about how I can't take a bottle of water outside, I finally make it to a random lawn chair set next to the stage door and watch as people walk to their homes and drive off. As they walk by, they notice me, and then forget me immediately. To them, I'm where I should be.

I can't decide if they're right.