We'd been passing acquaintances for a long time. I liked her, what little I saw of her, and I wanted to get to know her better. But things don't quite work out that way sometimes. Sometimes, you find, that in order to get to know someone better, you have to let them get to know you, too. This wasn't to be a one-way thing: she wanted total engagement, a give-and-take thing. I get that.
It's not easy. And you know, for me, for a long time, it was ALWAYS easy. When it came to things like this, I could always pay attention, close and fine, and have something somewhat valuable to the dialogue.
But she said she didn't work like that. She approached "getting to know you" in a way that I might not be familiar with.
I missed her when she came around, and was out of town when I could see her show, and she'd stopped doing that by the time I saw her again.
In an attempt to play catch up, I asked her on a date. "I'll always go with you, but you've got to do the driving. I like you, sweetheart, but I've enough work on my own without doing your's, too."
She took a sip of Sangria and looked me straight in the eye. "I'm not promising you my world, my message, or my bed. AND I'm not promising I'll stick around for even half the date. We'll just have to see what happens. You game?"
What else could I say? For the past three years and a few failed attempts, I just had to know. So, I said yes.
She likes atmospheres. She likes strange sounds. Weird sounds, big noises, odd little whispers and whimpers here and there. But she couldn't stand the noisy guitar.
It was playing very loudly in the little cafe we were sitting in.
"I like it - sometimes, anyway. But for me, I like melody. I like tunes. I also like for things to have a neatness, even if they're messy in their neatness. You know, that's about all I want to discuss of music for right now. I know it's your erotic zone and all that fluff but you've got to get used to the idea, Honey, that I'm not gonna tell you everything. Especially not on one date. It'll take a while. I think you've forgotten that."
She's right. I have. I vaguely mutter about so much stuff going on, I dont know where to begin and not sure I can keep up. Kind of like this journal entry.
A rueful smile plays across her lips. "Don't I know it! I'm supposed to be, like, some kind of an idea, or an icon, of a country, or something like that. Hell, I can't even decide if I want this donut. But, you know, sometimes a girl's just gotta." She took a bite. "Not enough molassess, really, but still good."
I tried another tack. "I don't understand all that you're saying, here, sometimes. I hear the words, and I get some of them, but I don't understand them - at least, not most of them."
A raised eyebrow told me I was about to get into something I knew I probably wouldn't want to hear. "You ARE listening, right?"
"Yes," I said. I was strong, confident, and even-handed there. I was listening.
She seemed to read that, and kind of shrugged sadly. "It's 'cause you don't know all the right stories. Hell, most Native Americans know exactly what I say, even though they don't know all the fancy words and phrases our great, wonderful modern-day culture makes up for them. They simply know. They know the power of stories. Kind of Irish, too, now that I think about it. You appreciate the power of stories and oral history and folklore and all that, but you really don't KNOW any." She sighed, a resigned grin tugging at her lips. "Well, unlike some men, at least you're making the effort."
I smiled gamely, and I knew I was going to be in for a humiliating, or humbling, experience. Thing is, with Scarlet, I sensed that you know you've already lost the argument; you just want to see how, and be entertained by that.
"I'm not much on dates," I admitted. I had no idea where to start, to tell you the truth. "But I'm game for anything. What would you like to do tonight, while we've got it?"
She gave a lopsided grin, as if no one had ever asked her that. "You're asking ME? Man, you really don't know this dating thing, do you? That...just might be the lamest thing I've ever heard," she said, laughing. "But you're honest. I can deal with that."
"And now that you've toppled my ego with little effort, where would Mademoisselle like to go?"
She stared off into space, thinking, I suppose, of what interested her.
"Honey, let's go paint the town tonight. You'll never get anywhere with me unless you let me into my world."
I stopped. Trying to understand her literally hadn't been a real challenge up until now. "You mean, 'unless you let ME into your world', right?"
"No. YOU have to let ME into MY WORLD." And here, she tapped my chest - the area where my heart was - with her finger. "That's MY world. It's your's too, but you like living in your brain too much. You know I'm about the heart. And you're a MUSICIAN! You're about the heart, too. But you haven't been in a while."
"That's so not true," I said. "I feel things with my heart most of all."
"Yeah, but you feel them, and then turn around and try to explain them through that overblown, overgrown lump of grey mush in your skull. You need to go back over some old ground. You know, the heart has a logic and all that stuff. Even SPOCK got that one on the first go-round! So, grab your stuff and let's go. I won't be your precious red-headed Spirit Guide for long. Lots of bees getting rid of their honey are about to go to season. You coming?"
For those wondering if I've possibly lost my mind (or would just like to laugh at me while I try this strange writing thing I've yet to know), this is a response to a challenge. If you're interested, and want to read more, let me know, and I'll post it here.