I am working with a young woman preparing for a parade/protest march in some liberal Arab state. We are in a very ornate hall covered from floor to ceiling (and including the ceiling) with designs and the words of the Prophet in stylized letters as if they came out of some sumptuous Koran or the Arabian Nights. The palace smells lightly of teak with which it is made. The sultan is robed in a white flowing robes and wears the headdress common to Arabs who live in the dessert or the (I think) Arab Emirates. A light breeze cools the room to just the right comfort for the young woman and I standing on marble tiles.
She explains the details of the upcoming march. She tells me that it is a protest against the regime but just within the tolerance of the ruler of the country. She insists that I join the march despite the fact that I am only a tourist in this land. I reluctantly agree. I revel in the beautiful land tailored with deep fjords covered with lush greenery. It occurs to me that this is unusual for an Arab state.
The parade is underway and I join it just before the end. As I march I see the cobblestone roads and squares of various cities I have visited in Europe. I remember sitting and sipping coffee in them. I reminisce about these experiences with a young person I am strolling with. The young woman appears and warns us that personal to us marchers is a possibility. Privately I shudder at this. I continue to walk with the others nevertheless.
The march reminds me of the casual Gay Freedom Day marches before these turned into commercialized spectacles. I am on the right side of the column. I stop in a used record store with the intent to browse for CD's. A box in the front contains old records. I thumb through it casually and surreptitiously glance about the store an notice that all of the wares are records and no CD's are for sale. Three people, including the owner are a the back of the store leaning on the counter. They are talking in indistinguishably low voices. They ignore me because they know that I am a browser and not a serious buyer.
The march is nearing its destination. The young woman proudly displays the cast she has on her forearm. She explains proudly but in gibberish how she received it. She asks to see my "mark of honor" from having marched. I am embarrassed because I have no such wound. She awaits eagerly and I sense that she will be disappointed if I do not have one. In desperation I show her the many scars I have on my right arm from cutting. She is plainly disappointed as are the people in her vicinity. They turn their heads and some walk away.
I am hot and uncomfortable and duck into a shady spot to cool down. I am now in the office of my therapist. She looks surprised but tolerant. She is wearing an enormous backpack and is plainly prepared to go camping. She waits patiently to hear what I have to say. I babble a torrent of words about my problems. I slowly realize that I have come outside my scheduled time. She is patient with me. It occurs to me that because I am late I only have her for about twenty minutes before she has to leave. I am further embarrassed by this.
I tell her that I wish to continue but I need to go to the bathroom quickly. I walk swiftly down the hall of the building where office is and duck into the waiting room to snatch the keys to the men's room. I hurry there and have trouble getting the key into the lock. A man behind me opens the door. I thankfully notice that the one stall is vacant. I rush in, fumble with the lock, and pull down my pants.
A heavy guy throws himself down on the floor and leans against the wall outside of the stall. He glances under the stall doors to see if someone, me, is in there. He realizes that this behavior is rude and sits upright, staring at my legs as he impatiently await the stall. I hurry to make my business but and unable to do so. I shortly stand up and button up my jeans. I am relieved that I have this excuse for having used the stall so long. This is how I usually make use of a stall in public bathrooms because it is so difficult to button up my jeans.
I return to the crowded waiting room to replace the keys to their hook. I have trouble hanging them up. I notice that I have not taken the right keys but some other set belonging to a person in the room. He graciously takes them back and points out the correct keys in my back pocket (where I usually keep them when I go to the bathroom. I place these on the hook on the wall and return to my therapist's office down the hall. Because I am late I walk past the waiting room to her open office.
In the office is my former therapist and another young man. He is thin and has a small goatee. He has bright dark but friendly eyes. He is patient with me even though I am somehow committing an indiscretion. He is sitting on the floor in a casual way next to an in-built stereo system playing fast and hard rock music. I like the music and wonder if it is by Lady Gaga.
My former therapist walks impatiently across the room to fuss with the stereo. With his back to me he sarcastically asks me if I can name the radio station broadcasting the music. I desperately search my mind for possibilities. I start with the student-run station from the University of California at San Francisco (UCSF). He gives up on getting an answer from me just as I am ready to suggest K105.3 as the station. The young man sitting with his back to the wall gently smiles at me.
My therapist reminds me sub-vocally that she wants to get going on her camping trip. The young man asks her if she has brought the correct tent and does she know how to pitch it. I jump in to say that a stand-alone tent does not require tent pegs and can be used anywhere. The young man, now sitting to the left of me, insists on questioning her about pitching a tent. I ask her if she is planning to stay on a rocky but smooth surface. She says this is so and I triumphantly ask her if she has a stand-alone tent again. She says yes and the matter is settled.
We both ask her if she has a sleeping pad. The young man says one isn't necessary in certain cases. I point out that it is always more comfortable with one. The young man asks about her sleeping bag, insinuating that on certain surfaces the right sleeping bag makes it unnecessary to sleep on a pad. I say that I have camped with all sorts of sleeping bads, from down to some other he had mentioned but that I cannot remember. In all cases sleeping on a pad was most comfortable.
My former therapist is in the chair facing me. The young man is once again leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. My previous therapist is annoyed with me. He is keeping a secret about me. He says that I am predictable like I was at the march. He points out that the young man is more open and interesting as a patient. I become keenly aware that I am dressed squarely in work-accepted, clean jeans with one of my boring short sleeve shirts. The young man is dressed cooler in torn jeans and a ragged but stylish t-shirt. He smiles smugly at me. My therapist makes it clear that the young man is a more interesting patient whereas I am boring and predictable. I am hurt by this but unable to reply to the contrarily. I wish I had deeper problems.
I wake up.
She explains the details of the upcoming march. She tells me that it is a protest against the regime but just within the tolerance of the ruler of the country. She insists that I join the march despite the fact that I am only a tourist in this land. I reluctantly agree. I revel in the beautiful land tailored with deep fjords covered with lush greenery. It occurs to me that this is unusual for an Arab state.
The parade is underway and I join it just before the end. As I march I see the cobblestone roads and squares of various cities I have visited in Europe. I remember sitting and sipping coffee in them. I reminisce about these experiences with a young person I am strolling with. The young woman appears and warns us that personal to us marchers is a possibility. Privately I shudder at this. I continue to walk with the others nevertheless.
The march reminds me of the casual Gay Freedom Day marches before these turned into commercialized spectacles. I am on the right side of the column. I stop in a used record store with the intent to browse for CD's. A box in the front contains old records. I thumb through it casually and surreptitiously glance about the store an notice that all of the wares are records and no CD's are for sale. Three people, including the owner are a the back of the store leaning on the counter. They are talking in indistinguishably low voices. They ignore me because they know that I am a browser and not a serious buyer.
The march is nearing its destination. The young woman proudly displays the cast she has on her forearm. She explains proudly but in gibberish how she received it. She asks to see my "mark of honor" from having marched. I am embarrassed because I have no such wound. She awaits eagerly and I sense that she will be disappointed if I do not have one. In desperation I show her the many scars I have on my right arm from cutting. She is plainly disappointed as are the people in her vicinity. They turn their heads and some walk away.
I am hot and uncomfortable and duck into a shady spot to cool down. I am now in the office of my therapist. She looks surprised but tolerant. She is wearing an enormous backpack and is plainly prepared to go camping. She waits patiently to hear what I have to say. I babble a torrent of words about my problems. I slowly realize that I have come outside my scheduled time. She is patient with me. It occurs to me that because I am late I only have her for about twenty minutes before she has to leave. I am further embarrassed by this.
I tell her that I wish to continue but I need to go to the bathroom quickly. I walk swiftly down the hall of the building where office is and duck into the waiting room to snatch the keys to the men's room. I hurry there and have trouble getting the key into the lock. A man behind me opens the door. I thankfully notice that the one stall is vacant. I rush in, fumble with the lock, and pull down my pants.
A heavy guy throws himself down on the floor and leans against the wall outside of the stall. He glances under the stall doors to see if someone, me, is in there. He realizes that this behavior is rude and sits upright, staring at my legs as he impatiently await the stall. I hurry to make my business but and unable to do so. I shortly stand up and button up my jeans. I am relieved that I have this excuse for having used the stall so long. This is how I usually make use of a stall in public bathrooms because it is so difficult to button up my jeans.
I return to the crowded waiting room to replace the keys to their hook. I have trouble hanging them up. I notice that I have not taken the right keys but some other set belonging to a person in the room. He graciously takes them back and points out the correct keys in my back pocket (where I usually keep them when I go to the bathroom. I place these on the hook on the wall and return to my therapist's office down the hall. Because I am late I walk past the waiting room to her open office.
In the office is my former therapist and another young man. He is thin and has a small goatee. He has bright dark but friendly eyes. He is patient with me even though I am somehow committing an indiscretion. He is sitting on the floor in a casual way next to an in-built stereo system playing fast and hard rock music. I like the music and wonder if it is by Lady Gaga.
My former therapist walks impatiently across the room to fuss with the stereo. With his back to me he sarcastically asks me if I can name the radio station broadcasting the music. I desperately search my mind for possibilities. I start with the student-run station from the University of California at San Francisco (UCSF). He gives up on getting an answer from me just as I am ready to suggest K105.3 as the station. The young man sitting with his back to the wall gently smiles at me.
My therapist reminds me sub-vocally that she wants to get going on her camping trip. The young man asks her if she has brought the correct tent and does she know how to pitch it. I jump in to say that a stand-alone tent does not require tent pegs and can be used anywhere. The young man, now sitting to the left of me, insists on questioning her about pitching a tent. I ask her if she is planning to stay on a rocky but smooth surface. She says this is so and I triumphantly ask her if she has a stand-alone tent again. She says yes and the matter is settled.
We both ask her if she has a sleeping pad. The young man says one isn't necessary in certain cases. I point out that it is always more comfortable with one. The young man asks about her sleeping bag, insinuating that on certain surfaces the right sleeping bag makes it unnecessary to sleep on a pad. I say that I have camped with all sorts of sleeping bads, from down to some other he had mentioned but that I cannot remember. In all cases sleeping on a pad was most comfortable.
My former therapist is in the chair facing me. The young man is once again leaning against the wall on the other side of the room. My previous therapist is annoyed with me. He is keeping a secret about me. He says that I am predictable like I was at the march. He points out that the young man is more open and interesting as a patient. I become keenly aware that I am dressed squarely in work-accepted, clean jeans with one of my boring short sleeve shirts. The young man is dressed cooler in torn jeans and a ragged but stylish t-shirt. He smiles smugly at me. My therapist makes it clear that the young man is a more interesting patient whereas I am boring and predictable. I am hurt by this but unable to reply to the contrarily. I wish I had deeper problems.
I wake up.
Comments
Post a Comment