Enigma
I filled in at ala restaurante’ the other night chanting that familiar phrase, “Would you like fries with that?”, and once again, the subject came up of where I live. In this area, it’s all about location, location, location. Where you live dictates how people view you - where they’ll mentally place you in their minds, and when you live in The Hood and you don‘t look like your fellow Hoodlings, it confuses people.
And now you’re a mystery to them and they want to figure you out.
There’s nothing I want less than for people to figure me out. Good Luck. I’ve tried for years. I’ve hired professionals, and I’ve managed this existence with no How-To book on being Me. I’m a Pandora’s Box of unexplainable riddles, a movie with no plot, a song with no bridge. Nothing makes much sense, or maybe it does to everyone but me. That’s why I scratch my head a lot, then place my pointer finger on my chin and tilt my head sideways while looking up to the sky as if in deep thought. It makes people believe I’m thinking profound thoughts. Or maybe it just looks stupid.
So when the confused ones at said restaurant questioned me about my place of residence, I smiled sheepishly and told them I’m there doing research for a book I’m writing.
Silence.
They bought it.
They bought it so easily it frightened me, but maybe that had more to do with the Coronas and whiskey chasers they were doing than my stroke of verbal brilliance. Suddenly I’m no longer a humble server, but I’m a writer, an author even, and it explains why I choose to live in The Hood and be amongst those I study for my craft. I don’t need to go to Africa and live with the "Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!", I can sit and observe in my pajamas all day long. I rose through the ranks of being the most important servant in the place and suddenly…I’m important. An important enigma they’re even more curious about.
Go figure.
And now you’re a mystery to them and they want to figure you out.
There’s nothing I want less than for people to figure me out. Good Luck. I’ve tried for years. I’ve hired professionals, and I’ve managed this existence with no How-To book on being Me. I’m a Pandora’s Box of unexplainable riddles, a movie with no plot, a song with no bridge. Nothing makes much sense, or maybe it does to everyone but me. That’s why I scratch my head a lot, then place my pointer finger on my chin and tilt my head sideways while looking up to the sky as if in deep thought. It makes people believe I’m thinking profound thoughts. Or maybe it just looks stupid.
So when the confused ones at said restaurant questioned me about my place of residence, I smiled sheepishly and told them I’m there doing research for a book I’m writing.
Silence.
They bought it.
They bought it so easily it frightened me, but maybe that had more to do with the Coronas and whiskey chasers they were doing than my stroke of verbal brilliance. Suddenly I’m no longer a humble server, but I’m a writer, an author even, and it explains why I choose to live in The Hood and be amongst those I study for my craft. I don’t need to go to Africa and live with the "Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my!", I can sit and observe in my pajamas all day long. I rose through the ranks of being the most important servant in the place and suddenly…I’m important. An important enigma they’re even more curious about.
Go figure.
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