misled

You think that comparing a meaningless picture to an Edward Hopper painting is a good enough sign of a common ground. 

You astound when he asks you where Cheryl´s book is and you end up exchanging your favorite literature one night before falling asleep, because you think it´s a sign of a common soul.

You smile when he says he wants to go to the Philharmonic before leaving, because it´s a sign of a common sensitivity.

You hope that those hands holding you back each time you say you had enough are a sign of a common heart.

  

You are wrong. 

   

savoir baiser

Some time ago I kissed a boy. To me, he was really just a boy though, in fact, for the society, a full grown up man. What can I say? Every male who is more than 4 years younger than me, to me, is a boy.

The boy and I inhabit different planets: he belongs to the skaters sub-culture, dropped out of college because “he makes his videos anyway, what could they possibly teach him at school?” and we have so little in common that it´s for me still quite inexplicable that we reciprocally found us funny and kind of liked each other. 

Fact is that the boy is, in a very uncommon way, sweet and pretty fascinating in his slightly arrogant yet somehow low key self-confidence. He loves to flirt and he seems to have a natural talent for that. 

Doubtlessly, he has a talent for  kissing. So, a late summer evening some weeks ago, this silly red fruit inexplicably found herself in a park, with the sun setting, kissing this boy.

For hours.

Nothing more and nothing less.

One beautiful and somehow forgotten pleasure; it was like being 14 again, blissfully enjoying the moment without thinking of any potential evolution of the situation. Since there wasn´t any possible evolution of the situation. 

Today I was thinking of the Synagogue in my town and I remembered that it was in front of that building that I met the boy the first time. And it made me think of the evening at the park. Though I will quite probably never see the boy again, the recollection made me smile, like a dreamy teenie. 

So, boys and men of the planet, I have a little suggestion: never, ever ever ever underevaluate the importance of the tiny, dazzling, simple things in life. 

And the importance of learning thoroughly - and never unlearn - to kiss well.  

ecce homo

I know what barbecue they grill their meat on. What shirt, shoes and watch they wear. I know what nanny they hire to look after their children, how their homes look like, what sports they practice and what phone they have in their pockets. I know where they go exercise, what books they (don´t ?) read, what their favorite conversational topics are and what wine they drink while holding those conversations. And, obviously, I know what party they vote for.

Or do I just think I know?

Are wealthy people more predictable than non-so-wealthy men and women? Or am I just a prejudicial, superficial Censorious Sapiens that puts all and everyone into a box?

Considering my huge, innate and still quite inexplicable passion for boxes it could be in fact my need to give an order to the world surrounding me that makes me think to know “the rich”. Or maybe, quite dully, just fear of not being able to keep up. Mixed, I have to admit, with a dash of silent arrogance (“Yeah, they have money but me, I...”)

This dilemma has been tumbling in my brains in the past hours and I somehow I feel ready to abandon my “self-reassuring biases”. I think I am actually eager to do that.

Because I want to laser-cancel this idea -tattooed in my mind- that only humble people who went through struggles in life are the real profound thinkers. Those are the ones I know and highly appreciate. I will value them, their stories and inspiration as I did so far. But I am starting to recognize my mistake: looking at “the rich” and not seeing them. Not even trying. I let their barbecues, their shirts, shoes and watches, their sports, phones and homes speak to me. I should know better. There´s another voice I should be listening to. How can I accuse “the rich” of being shallow when I judge them in the most superficial way?

They are men and women, and kids. No different than me.

I like to think that there is a reason why we stumble upon people. Now I think I know why the sleek, young golfer.