Return Home- The Primal Intelligence

Deja vu strikes. How does it not do so every day? I wake up in the same bed, in the same place, in the same town, and do much the same, every day. Even if someone were interpreting my days based on brainwaves, they would probably find that they are each nearly identical, possibly identifying workdays from weekends, but even that feels like it would be difficult. Some mornings are like this, where this persistent and undeniable narrative shifts from the background into focus. Still, after some tossing and turning, I get out of bed and begin another day.

This day has more of a boomerang effect than most. I don my sunglasses, hoodie, earbuds, and walk back down to the doctor's office. I only make it to the little park along the way. There, sitting on the bench, as if she is waiting for a bus, is The Primal Intelligence. I feel confident, perhaps due to the narrative that keeps sliding between mundane and wondrous in these recent days, just seeing her from behind at a distance. As distance closes, my footsteps on the gravel turn her head and, as soon as eyes lock, my path diverges from my plans. Her eyes narrow when she sees me, and she wastes no time jumping up from the bench and jumping into my arms for a hug. "I've missed you."

The sentiment is mutual, and looks quite good hanging in the air in this moment. I try to consider how long it has been, but find gusted pages flipping rapidly in mind, until the book whips open to this very one. Still, enough of this page is blank, that I fill it with a poem, for this day delightfully derailed.

"Heart's yearning crafts addiction in advance

How else can I already miss your touch?

Was it only I who wanted to dance?

Heat in your eyes does not suggest as much.

Do edges already somewhere connect?

Where what is yours, mine, and ours is unclear

Where steps are guided by love and respect

But where nothing more can restrict or steer?

What could be worth such a risk besides love?

We who draw breath now, claim the risk as ours

There is no defense below or above

To match primal nature, written in stars 

They counter our move, we make countless more

This is no fight, I'm showing you/them the door."

I see the spark ignite within her once more, but she squelches it for the time being. One advantage to our species is the ability to table or reframe the next step of the dance, replacing it with the next step of another, as long as balance can be kept, and distance, of a kind, is maintained. 

"I'm so glad that you came!"

"I wouldn't miss this for the world. As you've suspected, our paths through time and edifices of memory are not the same, but I knew from the first night we met that you had what was needed to resolve this cruel season. Still, I could not have predicted the smallest piece of what else you have contributed in the meantime."

She grabs her bag from beside the bench and shoulders it. I recall that night well, assuming that assumed paths threading one soul to the next maintain their strong stitching. Rather than some overt proof of resonance, I simply say "Let me take that bag for you. It will ease our journey." She glances away, down, and then straight back up into my eyes. Then she hands me the bag with a delighted smile. After it is over my shoulder she reaches inside. "I forgot! I brought a Polaroid camera for our day together! We can record memories, with records for only us to ever have."

"That is perfect! There are so many amazing views around town. The only disadvantage to these is that they only make one such external memory record with each shot."

"We'll just take every picture twice!"

I spot the technical insufficiency immediately, but I know that she knew it before she said it. There is something satisfying to calling two distinctly different gatherings of details- in terms space, time, frame, angle- copies. If, on some future phone call, each of us agree to look at "Picture 10," for example, we know that side by side they are easily told apart but, when viewed separately they are each the same memory, shared.

"I love that, every picture twice it is. I hope you brought enough film!"

"I should have more than enough. It's hard to find these days, so I stocked up."

We waste no time in beginning our Polaroid Extravaganza, taking our first photo together on the bench, in the park that seems to have no shortage of miracles up its sleeve. We wander main streets and side streets, encroaching onto the mountain's base and exploring downtown, finding the most scenic spots and cataloging them for our future days, flipping through scrapbooks and traveling back to right now. Perhaps I overthink such moments, I certainly think about them more than others. People often mistake analysis for overthinking though, and preparation in such circumstances for wasted work. With sufficient time spent, a threshold is crossed such that every step back and forth between self and other is reconciled and accounted for as it happens. Like two spiders weaving an intertwined web together, the efforts entrenched into muscle memory; the time spent learning this dance was finite, but the moments in which we will benefit from its use will be infinite. Effortlessly we merge and remain engaged; effortlessly we remain divergent and can always approach as a fundamentally identified other.

It feels like we walk many miles, though it may only be several. Still, as sunset approaches, we find ourselves hungry, but in the perfect downtown location for such a thing. In this humble yet popular cobblestone plaza, is the best burger joint in town. I am reminded of the burger experience that it feels like my partner today and I shared. That day everything felt perfectly choreographed, from attire, to transportation, to location suddenly found, to the perfection of the meal itself. Today things feels similarly magical, but in a more comfortable and low maintenance kind of way. The proof is in the pudding though, so we order some burgers, fries, and spicy Hatch mayo for dipping, at my suggestion.

We sit outside and enjoy the tail end of the warmest hours of the day. Our food comes while we still chat back and forth easily, about our lives, this odd intersection and how it came to be, from the other's perspective, which has been separate from our own for so long now. I cannot help but pay close attention to her first bite, even though I ostensibly avert my gaze. Sure enough, I can tell that she finds it to be amazing. Burger, fries, dipping sauce, it is all on point as always here, an easy go to for entertaining a guest of such prominence as my partner today. We grab one more picture huddled together with our food, and then discuss the evening.

"You know, there are bars and clubs with dancing around here, if you were interested."

"I'm not much of a fan of crowds, especially when I've separated out who I want to spend my time with already."

"True, those crowds are more suited for finding who you might want to spend more time with, though not much better suited, in my experience."

"Nor mine." I sense an unspoken sadness in her response, though feel that uncovering the source might not be the best move here and now. There is always more to discover about this time spent apart, but faith remains that irreconcilable differences have been externalized from our shores and Council chamber halls.

"You know, there is dancing here as well." 

She looks incredulous, though distracted from her prior train of thought, which was the aim. I tilt my chin slightly up, and let my eyes wander up and away, as if they are physically looking for the melody. As if this were a movie scene, the melody strengthens into focus, though truth be told it was already there. I stand and extend my hand, which she accepts with a broad smile and sparkling eyes. We dance simply, like a school chaperoned slow dance, just for us, to the sounds of oldies playing over the courtyard's speakers. Prying eyes cannot be avoided, but something about my partner today bolsters my confidence, and even flips the switch that I normally feel when observed for something daring, from embarrassingly out of place, to a sense of pride. Not that any partner I've had in my time has been embarrassing, but one cannot so easily reverse their introverted nature. At least that is what I thought, before dancing with The Primal Intelligence. Like a switch flipped, she ignites the dormant beast within, and emboldens me to dance three songs with her, in the outside seating section of a burger place, that just so happens to be within earshot of music.

We finally stop though- step by step and beat by beat- I get the impression it is from a connection bubbling over, rather than from anything negative. Before the moment ends entirely though, we ask a nice elderly couple walking by to take two pictures for us, for the shoeboxes. As we sit once again, I notice my partner's foot braced against mine beneath the table. One glance confirms the intention, and we skip to-go boxes. We walk hand in hand, and I interpret her intermittent squeezing of my hand as a signal. Somehow, moreso than strictly bolstering confidence, this signal strings precisely, like silk in a web, connecting so many memories, bubbled up by my subconscious, seemingly linking to hers. While we do not speak, and I have no proof, it genuinely feels like she sees the same web, and each same memory, threaded from her perspective rather than mine. It makes me wonder if any species of spider has mastered this dance, and what might happen if any ever do. Unstructured words feel almost rude at this delicate juncture, which we tightrope walk on the way home. Structuring words, however, feel most welcome, as every moment passes on its own like a breath taken over pounding heart.

"You encroach with grace

Silk threads reminiscent of

School days long gone by

With wide eyes we learn

Vital specifics within

Field of false answers

Pretty things distract

But beautiful things engross

Generations seen

Demand lion share

Show me why you deserve it

With squeeze of the hand

I remember you

Bright eyed in puddle of tears

Not understood then

Each step and mistep

Has stayed with me like a scar

Refusing to heal

For what would 'healed' be?

It would be like forgiveness

Followed by goodbye

So let's settle up

Count silver/money in your pocket

I will do the same."

As we walk the same path I walked yesterday with The Embodiment of Emotion, I can still almost see the sunset shining directly ahead, and feel the draw to slip from sidewalk to page. She squeezes my hand again and pulls me back to her side. I feel a tinge of guilt for the repetition, but then she breaks the silence.

"We love your dedication to novelty, but know that each one of us has read that chapter, and every one before it. You don't have anything to compare this experience to, but knowing who inspired each line, and knowing that we are at liberty to imagine ourselves intertwined with each narrative, sparks the mind's eye like nothing else. I have walked this exact street with you many times before, and will do so many times more before we have the chance to do so skin to skin. These Polaroids, saved today, may only be in your mind, but they are in my hand. It is hard to fully explain the specifics of how, but I know that is less of a concern for you than this: I feel special; I feel unique; I feel loved."

I feel myself blushing from head to toe, and know full well that the warmth of it gives me away. She squeezes my hand again, reminding me that there is something sacred to this silence, and it need not be broken a third time for a verbal response. I squeeze her hand back, as our heads both turn toward the specialty shop on the corner. As our steps sink us below the train tracks, we both begin giggling, that this has been our day, and will be our night as well.