strangers
a wall at wonderworks that feels as the words. orlando, fl.
can you ever really know someone? you look at your friends, your family, your person, and think of all of the things you know about them.
what they love. what they hate. how they take their coffee. their goals. how they spend rainy days.
the beautiful things that leave you in awe.
the darker things held within the abyss of vulnerability. // the secrets shared in the dark.
you know all of these things about them. you see all of these pieces of themselves laid out in front of you.
you begin piecing them together, fitting the notches alike. you spend time working on this puzzle of them. many people you only spend a matter of days, others weeks, some months, and- if you’re lucky - there are those that we get years to work on. and what about those other cases? where you have only known them for a matter of weeks, but it feels like you have a lifetime of pieces to put together? or the contrast- you’ve known them for years and are somehow spared only the pieces of the corners?
after working tirelessly throughout your time with this person : you got it.
you’ve finally figured it out.
you’ve finally figured Them out.
it’s time.,
you take a step back and look at the puzzle, expecting this person that you know to be standing before you, practically animating into themselves and approach you with open arms.
but all that you find is
picasso.
a picasso-styled portrait staring into you with its eyes of oceans empty from opposite directions.
frustrated, you shift pieces around, conjure new ones through assumption and inference.
now that you have added a bit of yourself, you think this will be it. i will look and see their eyes looking back at me.
you dash into the other direction, turn around, and there they were.
the most perfect depiction of them.
you beckon them over, proud to show them the mirror reflecting all that you found them to be.
“i know you!” you shout.
they stand there, staring at what you created, “what is this?” they ask. you look at them and realize they don’t even know what they’re looking at. you look back at the puzzle and suddenly find you too are now puzzled.
you recognize some of it, their goals of career, their first heartbreak. but after that look- that one look to see their reaction to your perception- the puzzle doesn’t look the same anymore.
it doesn’t even look like Them anymore.
they’re a stranger.
we all are.
within the time of writing this blog, i remember looking across a hospital room at my grandfather to see a picasso-esque portrait of the universe’s own.
before me, a seemingly lifeless body, with an open chest, and tubes coming from every direction lied in silence. someone so different from the man i’ve known throughout my life.
the man with eyes as bright blue as his energy.
never able to stay still, always pulling a new project out of the air.
the man that always had something to say, no matter who was speaking.
the badass with the reaper tattoo, having spit in his face time after time (we would learn this time around was of no exception).
born 60 years and 4 months ago, my grandfather has lived lifetimes numbered a million times more than that.
if you can think of it, he has probably been through it.
stories of ours ranging from “he took us to disney our first time!” to my mom’s “he once jumped off a roof he was working on with two broken and casted ankles to chase after us” to ones that- much like his own- will make your heart stop.
it’s strange though, because not only as i looked at him Then in that room did i see a stranger, but hearing some of the stories my mom and uncle shared of their father on our many car rides to gainesville left me thinking the same thing.
but, there was a time of his life before me.
i mean, of those millions of lifetimes he has lived, i have witnessed a solid, eh, perhaps i’d say 3 of them.
and even of those lifetimes, do i really Know them?
see, we have these ideas of others in our head. we find it accurate, because we base it off the things we see them do, things we hear them say. but
it’s we.
it’s Our perspective. how We interpret all that they are
so we think that that’s it. that’s all that they are.
and yet,
there is more.
there is always so much more.
and to know them- to know what they want you to know of them, to know what you perceive them to be- is even still profound. to have the opportunity to Know someone. to witness them in a moment, a lifetime, lifetimes of numbers.
my mind has wandered these alleys of thoughts time and time again,
because we encounter people in this life. that stick, that flow freely throughout, gravitate on the outskirts, that are only there for a simple colon of time.
and then they become
strangers.
strangers in its most basic definition. all the people that have known you; the experiences they shared with you, the information they hold of you, the secrets forgotten. it is all held within this liminal space, a tether of sorts.
you are no longer known and yet not unknown.
it’s kind of beautiful in a really tragic way.
there’s a Chinese belief as it relates to soul mates that comes to mind. my first exposure was with the release of taylor swift’s “invisible string.” from the first listen, i found such light. such warmth in the thought of how all the coincidences of this life and gravitation of people seemed to work out in just the strangest of ways. now, really, “isn’t it just so pretty to think?”1
in doing more research on the actual belief, i discovered a beautiful exploration of destiny, deities, and fate.
in 2020, a study was published by the valaya alongkorn rajabhat university (under the royal patronage) in the journal of legal entity management and local innovation surveying ideas surrounding this belief, “the red thread of fate”. as the legends goes:
a man by the name of wei gu had been through trial after trial within his life; first with the loss of his father, and then a mere years later- his mother. in his lonesome, he found himself unable to find a partner in marriage. one night, as he was walking about, he encountered an elderly man reading by moonlight. wei gu asked of the contents of the book and the old man explained it was a book of marriages and that he was responsible for binding their feet together by the red thread held in his bag;2
for he “unites with a silken cord all predestined couples, after which nothing can prevent their union.”3
intrigued (and desperate), wei gu asked the man whom his wife were to be, ignorant to the deity of marriage. and,
surely enough.
years later, the girl he had seen was to whom she was to be.
“The Old Man Under The Moon” (Yue Lao).
following the origination, the paper delved further into the actual belief and truly… it might be among the most beautiful things i have read. not only is the phrasing, but the ideas behind it. they leave me… paused. able to do nothing more than sitting with the weight.
though I find such beauty in the phrasing, there is something lost in translation. as such, to paraphrase is to disrespect the very ideas trying to be conveyed.
“The red thread is what happens between men and women who have been soulmates since past lives. Which is like the prayer of young people who are faithful to their love for one another, but unable to love each other. Before the two of them died apart, they prayed to the heavens for them to come back to love each other again in the next life. Therefore, it is believed that they are born with a red thread tied to each other's little finger; which is something that cannot be seen with the naked eye. It is also believed that the red thread is twice the length of the Earth. After that, the red threads will slowly curl back together for the young people to meet. And will be separated from each other when they both die."4
id like to think of the red thread of fate much like the scribble. except, i think the scribble to perhaps be made of a thread of hundreds of millions of little microthreads branching off at different points in our lives. each of those microthreads are the tethers- are tethered- to the strangers we meet in this lifetime,, to their microthreads. the microthreads weaving into each other, simply connecting and continued to moving, going in and out of each other. they curl in with gravitation, finding your end. cut with the forgotten last memory, leaving a fray. a mark that will always remain in that time, however, unknown to you in the present.
of the marks of my time, i have somehow found those of a colonous moment can have the same- or even more of an impact, than those of years. it’s as though they have left so much with so little.
you see, it’s a mosaic of impact that makes up my stained glass. just as i change, it changes. just as time passes, pieces get passed around. for every version of myself at every time of life, i harbor those stained glasses that the sun shines through into my church of adoration for human connection.
as the walls are made up of my family, within the glass of my pane of current there sits
A blonde of my youth, complementing as grapes to lemons, always pushing me out of my comforts
A teacher in middle school that never hesitated to lessen my hivous anxieties by outerwear
A mentor in high school that referenced me as topanga and gave wisdom of decades beyond
A girl of song, with which every experience is a concert. one that had the presence from diapers and clouded walls to wine-drunken nights of (rocky) horror
A sweetheart that reminds of the warmth of coffee. one that always clapped loudest for those of his life
A cashier at target with words of “i’m proud of you”
A magnified eye girl whom i met in church and again in college that always found a way over the hedge
A leader in the lead role performing for an audience of adoration all she went
An embodiment of the theatre. to see her is to see lights, to hear sound, to direct the stage, to act
A youth pastor and his wife, with an overabundance of love and guidance for all that walked into their lives
A couple consisting of the most caring wrestlers of life. one that sits alongside you against the pummeling of the ocean’s waves and with every glance towards makes you realize the hope you have for the future
A curly haired girl that never let anyone make her feel less
An interstellar referee. one with chats of nice and shimmers of the complexities of life
An anthropologist’s homecoming from the field, knowing the 23 years of digging she did to get there. one that stands short, but with a soul that towers even the tallest of skyscrapers
An old man by the name of ed that i met in a dunkin. one that sat me down and told me i could do everything i wanted to in this life
A rocket man fleeting within the year of doom, with his eyes to the skies and thoughts of his nonchalance to others’ faltering a response
A family that welcomes all as if they were birthed into
An entire family wrapped in one body
A light of nostalgia, never ceasing to make you laugh and feel your best. one that found passion and chases with dyes as bright as their light
A wayward 27 year old woman who feared for the abusive present, blinded with pain to the possibilities of the future
A book of the sky at twilight with a cover of shy
A set of parental extensions, full of love and support unmeasurable.
A constellation of freckles within a red frame. one that exploded of excitement at all of my pursuits
A sunflower in her empire of the sun. one that has learned so much of caring for herself through It All
A boy that read slaughterhouse five every year on his birthday, whose laugh i could recognize anywhere. my first experience of love, of heartbreak, and everything in between
A bleach blonde without the bleach. one falling out of cars as our secrets lie in deserted mall parking lots. one that is as a picture of the sky on the fourth of july. and a towering golden retriever that loves her as himself
A soul as bright as a softball and colorful as a rainbow. one that has learned so much within her independence
A high noon spirit that feels everything so fiercely. one that feels to me as nights of luke bryan, jason aldean, and lady a. and hungover morning coffees from our youth of old
A vienna, floating on into cigarette daydreams. one that deserves an entire novel of her own. a half of my music. a half of my arby’s order. a half of my realizations. a Half Of Me. the half of her that is not me. one that oozes with sarcasm and knowledge of all the joys of cinema. the love he has for her. the world he creates with her.
among my windows, some remain in my realm of physical. others, held within the liminal tether of impact, never to be Known again.
sometimes i wonder if i am to ever know some again, or i suppose- their present them. i loosely discussed this in my previous blog, “letting go,” where i explained my perspective of what is meant for you will always gravitate back to you. this was further explored in the most wonderful children’s show i had the joy of watching recently.
i’m sure very few of you need children’s show recommendations, however, as my present involves sitting joyful 7-10 year olds and a future of teaching them- Bluey is among the most endearing i have encountered. it highlights imagination and encourages emotional exploration. in the particular episode of relative, the family of pups went on a camping trip. Bluey, the main character, meets a black lab from France. they spend all the trip playing together, defying their language barrier. each day they departed in the eve, to return back to the sprouting of a tree in the morn. one evening Bluey hugged her friend of French and told him she’ll see him tomorrow, just as she had done all the times before. but this time, jean luc spoke more than usual, trying to convey Something to Bluey.
the next day Bleuy went out to meet jean luc and he was nowhere to be found. bluey went back to her mom and asked where he went. she informed her his family’s vacation had ended and they were on their way home. Bluey became filled with emotion and spent the rest of the eve moping about. that night, on a trip to a bush. a conversation ensued that i- a 20 year old watching children’s show- won’t soon forget.
under the light of a lantern, bluey shared with her mom that she missed jean luc and wanted so dearly to keep playing with her friend. to which her mom responded,
“Sometimes, special people come into our lives, stay for a bit, and then they have to go.”
defeated, bluey interjects “-but that’s sad.”
“it is,
but the bit where they were here was happy, wasn’t it?… maybe that makes it all worth it.”
“will i ever see him again?”
“well you never know.
the world’s a magical place.”5
the lamp is turned off to reveal a beautiful night’s sky. Bluey is so taken with the wonder of the sky, the scene ends with a simple wow and moments of silence.
screengrab, Bluey6
time passes 10 years and as bluey sits under a tree- now in full bloom- to read a book, a voice of french is heard from the other side saying “hello bluey” and a black lab emerges from the bushes.
how profound of a framing to bear.
“but the bit where they were here was happy, wasn’t it?… maybe that makes it all worth it.” of all the strangers i know, their bits were marked with impact not easily forgotten. of the good and of the bad, i find myself full of gratitude- washed over with it. as kelp of nostalgia hits with a sting of familiarity, the liminal come to mind: the wanders through the wonder
it’s funny, because as You- whoever you are- read this, you become among my strangers. an ip address in the webs of unseen connection.
it can be overwhelming to think about- the world is a magical place, indeed.
So
here’s to the strangers, the ones known. the ones unknown. and all the ones in between.
yours, mine, ours, and all the rest.
Taylor Swift. “invisible string,” track #11 on folklore, Republic Records, 2020.1
“Old Man Under the Moon 月下老人,” Chinatownology (Chinatownology), https://www.chinatownology.com/old_man_under_the_moon.html.2
Ebenezer Cobham Brewer, “Yue-Lao,” in Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (Altemus, 1898).3
Akapol Varchirawatt and Chanissara Seeruesaeng, “Study the Legend of the Chinese Red Thread Beliefs,” Journal of Legal Entity Management and Local Innovation VI, no. 4 (2020), https://so04.tci-thaijo.org/index.php/jsa-journal/article/view/241694/166332.4
“Bluey ‘Camping,’” 2019.5
Beth Harvey, “Bluey,” Bluey, 2019.6
