Mosaic--an essay

What makes a person? The assembly of abstract and concrete, of psyche and biology? What proof of self is it that we’re after in life? Recognition, in the end, seems to be what every one’s after: an imprint to leave behind or even just a memory to be. I assume the reason people want this so badly is because, like me, they doubt that they are- that they exist.

Some times I think I might not be real. I suppose that I must be some sort of collection of my favorite parts of people; after all, does anyone else wonder what it’s like to be someone else? I feel as though I am that person, that someone else that happens as a fragment, a flicker, when one pretends too long. Yet, that leaves me to wonder,
“What sort of mosaic of broken bits am I to have become something tangible—hold-able?”

***
“Have you ever slept in a baseball field? That’s a particular sort of bed,” Kasandra says.
“No, I’ve slept in a playing field. Not a sports playing field but a field next to a playground. The kind where, I’m sure they play sports, but that’s not all it’s meant for,” I say, stumbling over my thoughts. My hands are covered with dirt, and we’ve been supposing outside all evening. “You’ve never slept in that house!” I tell her, and she says she’s never considered it. “We should knock, and ask to come in, when they ask why, we’ll say ‘Because we never have before.’” Then we arrive home.
“What ridiculous people we are,” I say.
“No we’re not! That conversation was amazing. It was a particular sort of conversation! The very sort of conversations we should have if we’re going to be particular people, which we are! It’s a particular subject.” We laugh, and her books, stacked in three tall stacks on our carpet, tumble down as she frees her copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. “Ah, here it is!” she cries, “the scandal of particularity!” I am quoted to, too long to record here, and we move on. “Oh Annie Dillard,” she sighs, restacking five or so of her books. “I think I’ll make tea, yes, I know I will.” The books are abandoned and she rushes to the kitchen to return with my kettle in hand, “I already have,” she speaks quietly to no one in particular, and freshens her room temperature cup, which to me, looks like a flower vase too wide to be so short; no taller than the width of Kasandra’s hand. “Egyptian chamomile,” she says, “Egyptian flowers, right here, in my tea cup.”

***
I revisited my tree. This past full moon I stood, swaying, singing, and dancing under the moon on the Indian trail along the lake. Kasandra and Zach were with, and after bouts of “L-O-V-E” and “That’s Amore”, Kasandra and I collapsed, drunk with moonshine, against a tree. It was the first time I’d ever felt right hugging a tree. The feeling was in its smell and the way my fingers tucked into the gaps of its bark. I guess it’s my tree now; it’s its own tree as well.

***
I sat last night, in a room watching a girl and her harp—a girl and her guitar—a girl and her ukulele. Her name is Shannon and when she plays music, people listen, and when she plays music in places like that theatre last night, people buy her CDs. What a god awful fool I feel for looking at her and thinking how cute she is, nervously slipping over lyrics and jumping over verses. Her feet hop and step and stomp with her political strums and unhappy love song shorts. I looked at her shadow and her reflection in a dark window and saw her hook of a pony tail, so smooth and small saying “I’m small, but I’m bound strong.” She winked at me when I mentioned oatmeal; I hope I didn’t blush. Oh, what a god awful fool I feel for having a crush on a lady like this, when I’m sure were I to say such a thing to her, “Shannon, I have a crush on you,” she’d thank me politely and think disappointedly to herself “Oh how many times I’ve heard that one before!” I do not know her well, for if I did I’d likely have no crush at all, because when someone is platonic too long, I fizzle softly into friendship, but for now I sneak to her website with as much shame as if I were sneaking to her window, to try to see who she might be when she’s alone.

***
Who do you become when you’re alone? So much of who someone is, is made up of who they are to other people and how they are with other people. When I’m alone, I like to be in my bed. I like dirty flannel sheets that are all me and a selection of blankets all for me to choose, and no one to take my favorite stuffed animals. But in the morning I hate waking up alone, and in the evening I hate to lay alone. I guess I should nap in the day to stay up late and wake up after ten thirty each morning, because then I will never need someone to confirm my solid presence. One must be weak, or spoiled to think the familiar rub of pilling sheets is not enough to say, “Yes, Greta, you’re here.”

***
I like the looks of clocks, but not the bird ones where the bird picture where the hour hand strikes makes the noises. Those pictures; with their bird’s tails, pointing any which way they please! Those tail feathers always throw me off. Just what time is it anyway; and why should something like time matter anyhow?

***
There are certain things that I can cook, I can make a nice tomato based jambalaya with Italian sausage and salad shrimp. If I’m feeling vegan I know a West Indian red beans on coconut rice dish, which is pretty much kidney beans with spices in tomato sauce on top of rice boiled in coconut milk. I can make some mean mashed potatoes, and hard boil eggs. I bake too, mostly cookies. Once, with Kasandra, I baked a cake from scratch, and we put in honey, cinnamon and vanilla for flavor. I set the oven temperature wrong though and it came out sort of like a big fluffy cookie.

It is yet to be determined whether or not pancakes are cooking or baking.
I can make just about anything if there are directions that don’t require expensive equipment. I’m happy with my copper bottom pot and cast iron pan. I’d like to buy a whisk and a can opener. My mother sent me a potato masher last Christmas, it was in my stocking; I was very happy.

***
I cry too much. Are my feelings genuine? After spending years pretending to be other people, in plays or in fiction, I’m sure my edges must be blurring. There is one person who knows every side of me. Even she has trouble seeing me sometimes. I don’t mind feeling out of focus, what I dislike is never feeling solid.

***
Kasandra has a charming shyness about her in certain situations. She has an appreciation for the gorgeousness of simple things and important things. She revels in single sentences from novels. I appreciated that aspect of her, and took it into myself. I stop to appreciate the shape of my tea pot more often, and played with her in the dirt, making a mountain on her knee. It cracked in half at one point, she said it must have had a fault line, and we repaired it. When it happened again she said, “It must have been it’s time,” and we leaned against my tree. We went home and checked for ticks, and I washed my hands.

***
What is it like to be someone else? I spend more time wondering what it’s like to be me. Sometimes I think about being a specific person I know; that would be lovely. But if anyone ever supposed what it was like to be me or many people at once, I guess this must be it. I like skirts, I like dresses, and I like heavy jeans and thick sweaters. I write my characters into these clothes often. I write them into the sun, and on adventures, I write them right into love and back out. I write them into small knit hats and around fires. These are things inside me somewhere. Can I ever write a character that isn’t inside me? Maybe there’s no one that isn’t in me. Culture has made me who I am, and in travel I’m sure I could be anyone anywhere whether I was happy about it or not. This is something amazing if it is true, but no matter how amazing something is, that does not stop it from being horrible.

***
“Go ahead minnows, have my dead skin,” Zach says to the water’s surface and I wonder if they can hear him. They seem to like his feet more than mine, so I scoot my toes left, and on top of his, in hopes of being nibbled myself. We sit giggling at the tickles of their little mouths, the water waving around our calves. The sun is getting lower, and the dock feels wooden and warm around the edges of my mother’s old bathing suit; it fits me like a worn out glove.

His hair is as golden as ever. He takes his feet from the lake and the small fish scatter, reforming quickly at all ten of my toes. I think to myself that I’m definitely doing some good here, even if it’s nothing more than feeding fish. Zach and I smile wide, and we look at one another briefly through our windy wet hair. I look back to the shallow sandy lake floor. I swish my feet against the tickles of minnow mouths and the water stirs up suddenly cold; it’s time to take my feet out. I stand up, dragging the sail-boat towel from my back, drying around my ankles and see the wet print of my butt on the sun bleached wood. It stop to think, deciding that it can be concluded that I’m at least as real as my soggy butt print, and if it’s real enough to make Zach laugh the way he is, the late summer sun slung low, his hair and towel, and dripping legs all agreeing with his elation… well, if I’m real enough for him, then I’m real enough for me.