Arve Henriksen / Chiaroscuro

Buon Natale

When we were Younger and Better

When we were Younger we were Better.
More idealistic, less prone to compromise.
We drank from life.
We enjoyed pleasure.

Now we just know ourselves better.
We don't see through our weaknesses any more
The destruction of small ideas. (*)
Don't get any big ideas, it's not gonna happen. (**)

(*): The destruction of small ideas: a great album from 65 days of static, containing the song When we were younger and better.
(**): Lyrics from Nude, a dreamy Radiohead song about cheating.

Visit

Being ill means waiting. First you need to register, and the girl at the counter compared my image on the driving license with my current image, and exhibited a smile topped by blue eyes.
"That was me many many hairs ago"
I left her with the knowledge of our asymmetry, being she able to access my phone number at any moment; I had other destinations, another series of waiting moments in front of me.
Being ill is standing on a line, and waiting for some elderly people to finish discussing at the counter. I don't get it. Elderly people act like they have centuries in front of them, but they could die at every moment. It made my waiting longer. But it was worth it.
What stroke me of her was not her smile, practiced at patient-interaction courses, or her thin body, erected like bamboo on the edge of a river; her hands, they were transparent. They lifted the contact lens, and I was wondering whether it was the finger raising the lens, or was it the lens sucking the finger like an unsatisfied lover. Before I could answer, the contact lens had acknowledged her denial, and took revenge in my eye.
"If I am crying, it's not because you make me sad"
"Take some napkins"
"I am sorry. I keep on crying. I feel like I have just seen Gone with the Wind for the first time, right after getting into menopause"
"Have you ever weared contact lenses"
"Never"
"There's always a first time"
"And you never forget it"
"How is the pain?"
"Unbearable"
"Some people get crazy about it, and want it removed immediately. How do you feel?"
"I feel warm. I am sweating. Maybe I really am in menopause. Can I undress?"
"Go ahead"
We both pretended that the poorly hidden double meaning was caused by my weak dutch proficiency; I just took off my sweater and unbuttoned my shirt.
"Now it's turn for your second eye."
"Do I have two eyes?"
"Last time I looked I counted two of them"
Again those transparent hands. Again the dance of the fingers and the lens, an eye open in disbelief, and a sudden pain making tears stream in overflow.
"Would you look at my eye, I think I've got something in it"
"Don't close your eyes. The best you can do is look down at your knees"
I decided her knees were a much more pleasant thing to watch. So I did watch, and I did wait. Pain, and time; they look like the one needs the other to really exist, to really make a statement on my weakness.
"You need to look up. Raise your eyes, slowly, very slow"
Her knees.
Her hips.
Her belly.
Her tits.
I could not get higher than that, or I didn't want to, I don't remember. But my eyes fixed themselves over there. Shameless light inspecting shameless eyes inspecting shameless tits. Every now and them my eyes dare to look up at her smile, a smile I loved to believe was there not despite my staring, but because of it.
"Let's see if you can get rid of the lenses yourself"
I did not manage. I failed over and over.
"I am afraid I need your help"
"That's what I am here for"
"I am glad you're here"
The transparent hands grabbed a pen, and wrote down some secret code that only doctors understand. Orders for the receptionist. A new appointment, one month from now. One hour, the two of us.
Yes.