To Be Stuck chapter one

Kody sweatshirt 6.jpg

Cover image courtesy of Kody: http://www.fiverr.com/kodysteps2

How bizarre. Totally unexpected. I come here on a visit, after first visiting New York, then going to Pennsylvania and finally arriving at North Carolina. The itinerary was awkward itself but has become even more so by the mere suspense of the situation. To talk with someone about various intellectual subjects is one thing but to be entrapped in a handshake with said person quite another. I will retrace my steps, starting from the beginning, so I can assess why this is happening.

First, I had to deal with a situation involving my cousin from my birth family. I consider my adoptive family to be my real family but, since I was in contact with biological relatives a few years ago whom have since died except for one or two, I considered my cousin, from my birth mother’s brother’s side, a good friend. She still is a good friend but she lives in Pittsburgh Bay Point in California and the commute from where I live in Oakland, California is difficult and time-consuming. I remember a fellow from Pennsylvania who travelled to California and, during a casual conversation, he told me that the difference between Marin County and Berkeley was not long. He made a comparison with the difference between California and Pennsylvania. Oakland is next to Berkeley and Pittsburgh Bay Point is closer to Oakland than Marin County so the commute to where my cousin lives is not really too long but I feel tired in the hot heat and she lives in an area where the weather will shine its blazing sun right on me the moment I go there. However, before my cousin moved to Pittsburgh Bay Point, she stayed with me, on account of all of her immediate relatives died, though she would have wanted to move away from them even when they were alive, but none of them taught her any survival skills and none of them were any good at survival skills either so she had to be helped. I provided the help. She helped me often enough so I needed to reciprocate.

The process of finding her a place to live was excruciating. She did not like any of the choices and I had very little money in the way of buying her enough food to eat. I was not supposed to have guests at my place anyway, but I let her stay with me because of who she was. When I finally found a place for her that she accepted, which took approximately six months, my sister, who had helped by giving me extra money to feed her, offered to fly me to New York where I could spend ten days with her and see the sights and do fun things. A year later, now, she paid for my plane ticket again and I came out for another visit.

After a few days of spending time in New York, my sister offered me the chance to see her summer house in Pennsylvania. I figured that, since I had not been out of California when I was younger and then considered myself a well-seasoned traveller after seeing both New York and New Jersey, where the airport was located, Pennsylvania would be another experience I would appreciate. I went there with her and her husband, who was a professor at Columbia University, and we looked at the wonderful view of nature where the house was located and we talked about different academic subjects. I figured the subjects were probably academic because people tend to categorize their statements according to what stereotypical category sounds best. Since my brother-in-law was a professor, our conversation would be tagged academic, though I never was sure I knew the academic aspect of putting luggage on the floor or merely saying hello.

While we were in Pennsylvania, my sister received a phone call from a woman who had been a professor at Columbia University with her husband, my brother-in-law, several years earlier. She had a house in North Carolina where she needed someone to housesit for her while she was away on school business in Oregon. She used to live in California before she lived in New York and, now that she lived in North Carolina, she considered Oregon the most amenable state for her. My sister paid for my plane ticket to North Carolina and my brother-in-law’s college colleague picked me up at the airport, drove me to her house, helped me put my bags in the house and then said she was glad to meet me and she hoped I would enjoy myself while I was there. Then, she drove away.

I did not know where any stores were in North Carolina. I had not known where anything was in Pennsylvania but I was lucky my sister was around to show me everywhere. In that regard, I would consider my investigating North Carolina to be an adventure I would enjoy. My first destination was to find a store where I could buy some water.

My reason for wanting to buy water, as opposed to drinking what was on tap, was because I listened to my sister who told me her daughter, my niece, was a biologist and talked about the harmful organisms in raw foods and tap water. I was not totally agreeing with the raw foods part because I liked eating sashimi and never had an intestinal problem from it but I understood about tap water from my own readings on the subject. Also, I wanted to see the difference between the type of mineral water that was in North Carolina as opposed to Pennsylvania. I would not make the comparison to the water in New York because, even though upper New York state had some gorgeous nature areas and clean things, I was always in Manhattan and Harlem where there could be pretty neighborhoods but nothing so natural as the other two states. I walked ten blocks up the street where my brother-in-law’s cousin’s house was situated and no stores were in sight.

However, I saw a woman in front of her house who was wearing a tucked-in Duke University sweatshirt, with her sleeves rolled up, and she reminded me of women who went to Columbia University who wore shirts tucked in. Not everyone tucked in his or her shirts but there were a good many New Yorkers who did so and I enjoyed seeing the women who wore that style because it was my favorite style to observe. The woman, who I am now conversing with, was in New York while I was there and she always wore tucked-in sweatshirts with her sleeves rolled up so I felt strange and aroused. Until this happened.

I admit I stopped and looked at her for a few seconds, perhaps a few more seconds than proper. I should have glanced for one split second while walking and not stopped to observe her appearance. However, this is North Carolina and I am not too well-versed in the ways of people here. Of course, being the South, there is a bit of the country-music style going on and some of my favorite women country singers are from the south so maybe this woman is imitating country singers. My reasoning is inaccurate because country singers do not usually tuck in sweatshirts so my second guess, which is now my first accurate guess, is that she is just herself, wearing what she wore when I first saw walking out of the used book store in New York. She had a book in her hand, which I tried to see the title, but to no avail. I had thought about her every day until now, which is odd. Not that I knew anything about her. But I thought about her in some hypothetical situations where we would be walking along the beach, holding hands all night. Now that a similar situation is happening, I cannot say that my reaction is what I thought it would be.

I stopped for a few seconds, looked at her and then walked again. She said, “Hello.”

I looked at her again and said, “Hello.”

She said, “Come here.”

I said, “Okay.” I did as directed.

She said, “My name is Constance McRobbie. What’s your name?”

I said, “Andrew Tagg.”

She extended her hand. “How do you do, Andrew?”

I gave her my hand. “I do well.”

She shook my hand and kept shaking, continuously. She is still shaking my hand.  Our conversation, as it is at the moment, continues. She says, “I think consciousness is only a bunch of particles that act independently from their major host. Our sense of individualism is a smokescreen. Everything is connected. I don’t believe that you are a separate being from me. We occupy separate fragmented masses but the masses are connected through other types of energy. Particles are energy. Our thoughts are particles. Everything is scientific.”

I say, “I see your point but I think there is more to it than that. How could I have feelings for another person if my feelings were just dead matter? I believe that matter has a conscience. It’s the same type of consciousness that the philosophers described. It may be related to matter but in the same way that peanut butter and jelly are related. They can combine but they can exist independently, also.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. The process of manufacturing peanut butter and jelly is ultimately the same as the manufacturing of anything. You can take something material and process it to be something different but the bottom line is that everything begins with particles. Air is different than trees but trees need air and the origin of trees is the same as the origin of air. You might think you are separate from me but you and I originate from the same thing. You might be able to walk away from me and pretend you’re getting away from me but it would be an illusion. You and I would still be connected.”

I try to let go of her hand. I cannot do so. I say, “It seems that you’re trying to drive in your point by not letting go of me.”

She shrugs. “Why would I let go of you?”

“We’ve been talking for a half hour so far. That’s how long you’ve held on. It’s strange.”

“On the contrary, what would be strange is my letting go of you. I like you and I want to continue our conversation. If we were to let go, you would walk away, perhaps quickly and a long distance. I wouldn’t be able to talk to you again. That’s why I’m making sure that doesn’t happen. I don’t trust you.”

“I don’t like having conversations with people who don’t trust me.”

“It isn’t the kind of trust you’re thinking of. I’m talking about the kind of trust, or mistrust, that relates to love.”

“I thought you said you didn’t believe in love.”

“I never said that. I do believe in love. I think that love is another form of matter. It comes to us when our thoughts shift to positive moments in our lives. Love is memory. A memory that creates particles of positive reaction is a love memory. My holding on to you is helping me create a continuous love memory. Mistrust is not a negative particle. It is a prevention of a negative particle. It is positive.”

“Okay. Suppose I believe you. Suppose you are telling the truth. How did this start? How did you get to this point with me?”

“You might want to ask the universe why it brought you here to North Carolina where I live. The universe has arranged for us to be together. It put certain scenes down on the table, so to speak, and it has told us to compile the scenes so a story is assembled. I remember you from when I visited New York. I was visiting my grandmother who is old but still healthy. All the other members of her side of the family were not as healthy. They ate fattening foods and were depressed. She moved out of the family house when she turned eighteen. That was unheard of back then. She was successful in living a life that made her happy. Her income was always modest and she was not always the most popular person in the room but her friends were loyal and good-hearted and her apartments were quaint and not in big city areas where there was noise. I visited her because I wanted to find out what was her secret to life. She told me that there are clues every moment, guiding you and showing you ways to move. Some clues don’t need to be followed. But if you see a clue often enough, it is best to follow it. If it shows up more often than what would be considered coincidental, you hold on to that clue and you stick like glue to it.”

“I would think that you’re telling me that I am your clue.”

“Why else would you be here?”

I explain why I am here.

She nods. “If those things weren’t supposed to happen, they wouldn’t happen. However, they did happen. They are happening. So, welcome to us. I’m happy and you should be happy, also.”

“I thought you said emotions are particles. How could I be happy if happiness is a particle?”

She sighs. “You’re still not getting the big picture. The more I hold on to you, some of the information may sink in. We can feel emotions. It’s just that emotions aren’t without matter. They are physical entities. If you want to cry like a baby and feel upset because the big bad hand monster won’t relinquish her grasp, you’re an emotional basket case. However, you are physically attractive so I will still feel enjoyment and entertainment keeping you. I could get impatient with your whining and moaning if you resort to those but your handsomeness is a good balance and I’ll consider this a success.”

This, although already surreal, becomes even more so. To daydream about a fantasy is one thing but to be stuck in the fantasy is another. I should have considered the clues I had been given. She wore her sweatshirts tucked in every day when I saw her in New York. I admit I went to a café, after perusing through the book store, and saw her sitting at a table, reading her book. I tried again to see the name of the book but I could not do so. However, on a whim the next day, I went to the café and she was there. She did not have a book with her. She sipped her coffee. That was the only thing she did. I noticed she wore a tucked in sweatshirt with her sleeves rolled up. I imagined knowing her.

I make comparisons between people, especially women, who wear their shirts, or sweatshirts, tucked in and people who do not do so. Aside from one’s personal preference, I believe there are also issues of self-confidence or the lack thereof. Members of my birth family, whom I did not know until I was an adult and decided to meet them again, never wore tucked in shirts. My birth mother wore dresses that looked like faded towels and she was considered the best-dressed of the whole clan. My cousin had probably never saw anyone who knew how to dress well. They lived in Antioch, next to Pittsburgh Bay Point. If Pittsburgh Bay Point was considered a place where nothing much happened, Antioch was the place that made Pittsburgh a playground. Unless one is a drunkard and likes to guzzle alcohol outside of abandoned malls, there is nothing to do in Antioch. There are dollar stores where one can walk around and look at cans of pet food and vacuum cleaner bags. After a while, that gets old. My birth family was well-versed in knowledge concerning which pet food brand was the tastiest for dogs and which vacuum bags would best hold massive amounts of dirt before breaking. My birth mother and uncle would talk about pet food and vacuum bags for several hours at a time, not because they had pets of vacuums but because they wanted to sound like they were hip on a subject and could talk intelligently about it. As to whether or not I would prefer being around my living biological relatives or staying here with Constance, I cannot decide. She is good looking but, in this instance, I am doubting the importance of appearance.

I say, “I need to get back home soon.”

She laughs. “Where’s home?”

“Well, my home is in California but that’s not the home I meant. I need to get back to the house where I’m house-sitting.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How dare you assume you know everything about what I do or don’t need to do?”

“I can assume I know everything about you on account of your mentality does not describe you accurately. You are here with me. You will stay here with me. Nothing else matters.”

“What if I said I will accept if you come in with me? Would you let me go back there?”

“It would help but, like I already told you, everything is related. Time is just an illusion. The only thing that exists right now is the immediate moment. If you say you can’t keep staying with me because of sweaty palms or because we can’t eat dinner properly, you’re not basing your statements on what has transpired. You’re basing things on thoughts about what might happen or what did happen. You’re not basing anything on what is happening.”

I shrug. “I guess this is it.”

She nods. “This is all there is.”

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