Framed Insight

I get a call from Chase, an old friend who moved to Manhattan on a whim last spring. It was nothing he dreamed about. He said he came by accident. He invites me to “a bash” at The Hotel Rivington, apologizes for not getting in touch earlier, thinks a decadent night together is long since overdue and would love if he could have me to be his date. I tell him I will arrive fresh and fabulous by eight, but he insists I be exquisite instead. 

…”No you probably won’t recognize me”…”Yes, time does change us all”…”Hair is short now, just needed something different”…”Yes yes, an identity crisis I'm sure, I should be committed”…I like him laughing…”Look for me”…”Masculine feminine"…”I’m sure it won’t be difficult”…"No no, I won't be dressed as a newspaper boy"...I could listen to his laughter for hours, it sounds like he's in love...”A dress”…”Variations of blue”...

But what I hadn’t mentioned was what I hadn’t decided yet. Instead of being draped in jewels, I settled for less, giving it no thought that he may mind.

Thirty minutes after my intended arrival, the glass doors are pulled open by matching men with gloved hands and funny sideways hats. While, entering with a gold frame hanging around my neck, I sense the inside life taking me in as I devoured it. I am confident, feeling better than I expected and looking better than I think. My heels pinch the carpet, but all stems do poke, I reason while exhaling the cab ride’s anticipation for this moment happening right now.

Giving me away is my skin and I take notice that I have become this essence. Crossing the lobby, my hips move in waves of blue, a visual so hypnotic that it remains as an aftereffect attaching to the faces behind me. Such an old trick! Become whomever you have chosen and others believe in you, which is an effect that only creates a better self-image and produces a more interesting story. Oh we women only want such small, trivial pleasures, never asking for much out of the ordinary. But the effort involved is what makes us as feverish as we are; do forgive the way we act.

Instantly acknowledging me in the main room is an evocative smell of perfumes falling off flesh and passing through the air; whispering to me notes of clover, anise, jasmine and a faint trace of rose, that thank goodness can barely be distinguished for it is no secret that the scent of a flower decomposing is enough to ruin a mood. 

Appetizers are placed like a centerpiece in the heart of the room. I cannot resist appreciating this irony that will probably be overlooked. So I stand, completely fascinated by an assembly of the food chain that fulfills each countries’ palate and has everyone hungering for, which is absolutely against acceptable behavior and prevents them from touching the king crab claw, a chicken skewer, coleslaw or nut muffin. Really, to be seen eating would weaken the vision of you while downright deforming the perception you’ve been maintaining—this impression that you are in control of yourself. Oh, but not if you play with finger food! It is safer to opt for a dry martini with three olives and continue entertaining the gaze’s hunch that you are a one-dimensional character and therefore, a more attainable offer than what you stand for inside the comfort of your own home.

I grab a napkin and scoop up seven shrimp, my very own protein cocktail, as the room dances in light of lubrication. Women sit in chairs unaware their dresses make them look like they are poking through flowers in bloom around their waists. Men can be heard purring to their partners, telling them all sorts of scandalous things that sound no different than poetry tonight.

Watching, I return the gaze. Almost forgetting the reason of my presence, when suddenly an arm wraps around my shoulder and brings a glass of champagne beneath my nose. The sight of the guests becomes evanescent as I turn toward Chase’s lilting Australian accent. I laugh, pulling at his black beard, a dense mat covering the lower half of his face.

“You’re the one who has changed! What’s with all the hair, hiding from someone?” 

“Actually, yes, but I’m glad you were able to identify me. Can I hug you or do I run the risk of breaking that frame?”

“It’s a risk I am willing for you to take.”

“You’re unbelievable. Quite the sense of humor, if I may say so myself.”

“I don’t think anyone gets it.”

“I do and I’m the one you’re here with, so if it means anything at all, I give you an A.”

Myself in this scene was seemingly an ironic relationship, but perhaps it was completely circumstantial. However you must see, I figured Manhattan was the city of character, so wearing a frame was the least I could do to fit in properly. Yet when baffled guests asked me what called for such peculiar behavior, I could only smile with my eyes—and them alone—pause as if waiting for silence to speak for me and finally say, “If one is to take part in a spectacle, he better look spectacularly.” Then, as if ready to finally clarify myself and excuse my appearance, I only expounded upon the former: “Oh stop speculating and let us experience the extravagance!”

Of course there is always something to postpone or prevent pleasure. In my case it was a tap on my back. Confronting me was a nameless female, who not only displayed the constellation of freckles littering the landscape of her face but her anguish as well. “I think you are arrogant!” I thanked her for the shallowness of her thoughts and tried to refocus my attention. But the difficulty was undeniable. I almost felt ashamed that I had been so easily mistranslated. I couldn’t prevent myself from assuming women disliked me for my courage. It was an awareness that ironically gave the impression I was removed from critiquing my sense of self. And they had aversion toward me because I had a quality they knew, not admittedly, they would love to have.

I got the sense women opposed me not for who I was, but rather how I made them feel. And if one knows even the slightest about a female’s interior, it can be guaranteed this was the worst way to affect another woman. Essentially, to be capable of making a woman feel was proof that one mattered. And this was a power that, in turn, made them feel powerless, which was a vulnerability they would never admit governed them. 

I knew men observed, trying to compare me to other women and found it impossible. Ultimately agreeing I was motivated by confidence. A gold square like a plaque of self-approval held against my blue dress, framed me in sight and I could tell they found my poise fascinating and my assurance refreshing. But it is my intensity, which always intimidates them—a consciousness of my mind in sync with the physical that makes them insecure about their own sense of self. My elusiveness is worthy of blame, for it creates the challenge of ever attaining me and has discouraged them from pursing their passion for my persona. I am certain it is because of this—and this alone—that their admiration always stays at an elementary level and has never matured to become real.