This is a recollection of an event which came to pass almost a year ago, one with which I’ve been fascinated since. Having been reluctant to write about this event until recently, I do so now only under the naive impression that I’ve found the right perspective and state of mind to do the experience justice.

She said her name was Lilly. She was a dancer. Well, not at the moment, she wasn’t. Right now, she was a traveler. A voyager. An explorer. Alone. No longer alone, however. By chance, or under the guidance of the stars or of destiny or of God or of fate or of the Creator of the Universe or of the life forces flowing through us or of whatever disguise chance has donned most recently, the two bouncing, twisting, zigzagging lines that were our lives, and still are but are now bouncing and twisting and zigzagging in other places, these two lines met. They met, and for a period of hours they became stuck. They ran in parallel. They shared trajectories and colors and the width they’d each picked up on the way. She was a dancer. Well, not at the moment, she wasn’t. She was taking a break from school — wanderlust had called and she’d answered, and she’d taken a bike and a backpack and fled her art school and her city and her family, which wasn’t much of a family anyway, she says. She’d been crying. She’d been in the hall and on the phone and crying and I’d asked if she was alright. Yes, she answered, she’s fine. A knock at the door, some minutes later. She needed a towel or a toothbrush or someone to talk to and this hostel, it didn’t have any. So she had someone to talk to, and we talked. I’ve been biking across Europe, she says. I started in England, and I’ve been riding for almost a month. When are you planning to go home, I ask, but that’s the wrong question. Not for a while, she says. I’ve met people, so many people — curious children and their curious parents who watch as I ride by, and little old ladies who want to help me get home, and other cyclists who join me for a while but who can to go much faster than I can, and lots of men who want to know me better. Aren’t you homesick, I ask, but that’s the wrong question. A little, she says. But it would be more sickening never to have done what she’s doing. Her line is growing wider, and moving faster and zigzagging more. We talk for hours, until the sun is brewing its morning coffee and getting ready to start its daily routine. The sun’s line is a straight one. Our conversation continues, and I watch her line twist and turn. So many stories, so many moments, so much food for the soul, or the inner being or the qi or the psyche or the prana or the chemicals that make us all go, or whatever disguise the soul has donned most recently. The oil on her legs, and the cuts from the bike’s gears and the lines of dried tears that she doesn’t know are still visible, they’re beautiful. When finally sleep comes and goes, and the sun is once again rolling slowly along its straight line, we meet up again. Checking in to the next hotel, not far from the last one, where I’ll be spending one more night in the city, I tell her she’s welcome to stay. She says she doesn’t know, she was hoping to reach the next city by sundown, but maybe. That’s fine, I respond, we can get something to eat after I check in — you’re fine waiting just a minute? Yes, she says. I enter and I give a man money and he gives me a piece of space that I can live in, but only until noon tomorrow, and I come out of the hotel to meet back up with Lilly. She’s gone. Where did she go? But that’s the wrong question. At that moment, our two bouncing, twisting, zigzagging lines had split, shooting off at different angles. I’m grateful to Lilly, as she made my line a bit more colorful and a bit wider and a bit more rambunctious. And these two lines, they were now off to collide into different things and change into newer and brighter colors and grow wider, each of them. They may cross again, but probably not. Goodbye Lilly, I think now. And I think of the right question, but it’s too late to ask.

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6 Responses:

Lonnie

Apr 5th at 8:09 am

Nice reprise…

Glad to have stumbled onto your blog. I love the template!

Matthieu

Apr 9th at 12:03 am

I had completely forgotten. lilly… I can barely remember her face…

Q

Apr 9th at 5:18 pm

I’ve been trying to think of a good response to this for the past few days, but I can’t come up with anything that’s… coherent.

Bravo.

Charles William

Apr 19th at 12:46 pm

Lilly…She sounds like the mistress of your dreams…or maybe mine? I enjoyed this, though. I suggest posting everything in your laboratory of written word. I would love to read it; furthermore, I would like to share some of my stuff–perhaps in a discrete manner–to get some feedback.

Till then,

Selrahc.

Hanzo

Apr 20th at 10:35 pm

She came to the door looking for a map, but all I could find for her was the Eurail map. I answered the door and invited her into the room despite the fact that none of us were dressed, haha.

It’s a shame that our time with Lilly was so short, she seemed to have a lot in common with us.

Big Al Steele

Oct 2nd at 3:31 pm

MORE!!! i wanna read more of your written stuff and see more of your drawings haha you put up some old classic drawings that bring back memories and some really sweet new stuff!!

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