So we played Asanisimasa for years and as we did, the symbols and the codified language grew and that language, unintentionally but like any language, came to exclude others. I didn’t see the harm in that because it was simply our code and our short-hand and our symbols; how do you explain what a simple thing - say, for example, a clover flower (even if it has dried up and withered) - means to another person when between the two of you you know exactly what it means but cannot verbalize? After all, isn’t that the point of symbols? They say what you cannot verbalize?
No. I will not list the symbols here. Some things, even when things end, are forever private. You put them in the lockbox of your temporal lobe and maybe it is a language you never speak again. I go to New York again soon: I have nobody to speak that language with anymore, for only he would understand. No doubt, I will find myself at Grand Central Station (this time alone) and I will sit down and weep, this time over what is lost, for there is a great loss here. If you think it is the loss of a lover, then you are dead wrong. If you understand that this is the loss of something more than this, some deeper current, then you are beginning to understand the grief I feel.
I re-read Elizabeth Smart’s book this week. I realized I had missed so much the first time, perhaps because I was too young, or perhaps because I had not suffered this kind of loss. I could not have imagined it, for emotionally I was a child even though I was an adult in terms of experience — growing up in the projects, raising my siblings, getting myself through university, Vogue -- but I had never dealt with my tendency to hide, to not let people in. So I learned at last to do this and I succeeded and I, after some odd years of work, I finally stepped out of my corner, removed my dark glasses and showed these pale green eyes and allowed myself to be known.
I chose so carefully. I have come a long way. I am weary. I wonder why I ever stepped out of my corner; why was that necessary? I step back now then; the dark glasses back on, me owl-like in my grief, these marbled green eyes hidden. (“Such a shame, friends say, you have such beautiful eyes,” to which I want, uncharitably, to say, “Fuck you. So what. And where does that get me? I once met someone with the exact same eyes and I saw recognition and I believed that meant something – such a fool I have been. Leave me alone.") If you want to find me, look for me in Grand Central by the Whispering Wall; I will be the one in black, weeping, eyes shielded, and if you approach, approach gently. I frighten and dart quickly as a deer in the inner-city.