Minding The Matter

"There's a graph I read inside my head
Peaks and the furrow, direction of arrows
And your line is fading into air
Now I've found a mountain, a solid incline"
 - Speaking Of The End, by Låpsley


I closed the book and swung my legs over the side of the bed. The sun had set about three hours previous. I ran a comb briefly through my still-damp hair and braided it. Recently, a man I was on a date with waited and watched as I braided my hair, my elbows in the air but fingers moving quickly to tie it off at the end. (We all watch each other, wondering what it’s like to be human in someone else’s skin). It reminded me of a time when a man I was with watched as I sliced up a huge watermelon for a family cookout. He’d said something about enjoying watching me in the kitchen, which at the time I’d taken to mean he found me highly capable, though later I’d re-examine and wonder - in conjunction with other conversations we'd had - if there was some underlying thought about a woman’s place. I can’t recall now, all these years later, what exactly he said. Just my blush from the tenderness of his tone and gaze, juxtaposed with the murky doubt I’d considered a few weeks later when replaying scenes from our relationship. Just because I enjoyed cooking and serving didn’t mean that was my role and place, I reminded myself. 

I remember: the knife in my hand was heavy. I had to commit myself to that first tedious slice in order to successfully cut the watermelon in half and not let the knife slip along the sleek surface, or become lodged in the middle. The first cut is always the hardest. Did I have a concentrated look about me? Determined? 

Once, my father had a workshop accident and the tips of two fingers were sawn off. He was rushed to the hospital and though the nails of those fingers look strangely garbled, they are otherwise perfectly fine. Even so, ever since I was a child I’ve imagined an accident where I lose a finger or more. The large knife slips along the hard watermelon rind and lands on my hand, for example. Because of this overactive imagination, or healthy caution, I’ve handled knives with both reverence and control. “I know what you can do,” I’d tell my knives, if such a conversation existed, “but you won’t get away from me. I’m the one wielding this blade. You do as I direct.”

My braid falls just between my shoulder blades. A couple of weeks ago, I cut my hair for the first time ever. I considered doing something drastic; in the movies, the heroine often chops off her long locks before making a life change or major decision. It’s symbolic and powerful, though without any hairdressers available to fix any damage I might inflict in the name of drama, I opted for a simple trim, and was delighted with the results because they were so perfectly unnoticeable to anyone but myself. 

So. Knives and scissors and capability. One-off moments and faced fears. Back in bed, I typed this stream of consciousness as a note into my phone. Pre-sleep ponderings, so strange and circling. So cathartic to write, connecting various dots within my life and mind, before wondering what I’d dream about as I drifted off to sleep.