02-14-05

Ali was a petite, dark haired, bright eyed woman of Canadian persuasion. She never blushed, was prone to baby talk, and had a habit of puckering her lips and looking aloof, as if to say "I didn't do it." While her beauty was unavoidable, her mind was one of the most beautiful things about her. I melted at the fact that she could render me stupefied and helpless at the drop of a hat. Girls in the past would have either succumb to my poorly presented arguments out of apathy or argued their equally ill-contrived notions ending in a stalemate. In the time that we had been dating, I had found myself struck silent several times with her unobtrusive points of view. If arguing is to consist of some sort of struggle, then I would not even say she had to argue. She would simply drop a carefully crafted blasé article of knowledge in the most unassertive, matter of fact manner. It was always correct and just the piece of information that I was not considering in my own opinions. I always found no choice but to understand and comply with her viewpoints. This was a good communicator.

Our relationship, however, was somewhat based on a willing lack of communication. She did not talk much, neither did I, and this seemed to suit both of us very well. The majority of our grandiose first date was spent lying next to each other, staring and not staring, quietly, comfortably, until it seemed inappropriate for a first date to go on any longer. For the most part, we did not spend time worrying what the other was thinking or whether or not the other was pleased. It was assumed that things were so and that brought comfort into our relationship which might have otherwise been mired with inconsequential chit-chat.

The benefit of this type of relationship is that the tone of any conversation does not dictate how enjoyable a visit is. You can judge the quality of the relationship on how tightly she holds you, how she looks at you when you leave in the morning, how the food that you prepare together tastes, and other non-verbal perks that get overlooked in place of "she said this on that day". The downside to this type of relationship is that when you need to communicate to each other, you can't because you've shared very little with the person other than, "You're so beautiful." In times of turmoil, a lack of communication leads to psychosis and you begin to assume things about the other: Inadequacies, infidelities, apathy, contempt, unappreciation.

The beginning of our relationship was rather blissful. Life was good for her at the time she met me. She was excelling as a designer's assistant and financial success as well as vocational success were within sight. I accented this vibrant life she was leading. I am not absolutely certain of what role was expected of me. Perhaps an ornament was the most suiting idea, but boyfriend was not out of the question. Right around Valentines Day, things took a disastrous turn as she was fired, unfairly, from the designer job. I stopped what I was doing that day to comfort her.

To me, the word "comfort" is a physical word. When you are comforted, you are held tightly, closely to something warm. I was aware of other ideas of the word; ideas that were not as caveman in origin, ideas born out of our capability to form sentences and communicate understanding. This variation of the word was something that I tried to avoid. I felt more attractive when I thought of myself as a 6'2" broad shouldered man who could dive off of a cliff or grow a beard at the drop of a hat. I felt less adequate when I thought that while holding Ali, there might be something that I could say that might provide more comfort than my manly embrace could. So I stuck with what I was familiar with and her tears poured unabashed.

I had only known her for two weeks at the most. Her tears were alien to me. Had we been together for a few months, I might have had a better understanding of a crying Ali. If I had dealt with her crying at a sad movie, or at something mean that I had said, or after stubbing her toe on a particularly stressful day, I would have had a reference point from which to assess the appropriate coarse of action. But I had none. I knew her, but not well enough to administer a quick fix.

The solution seemed obvious: Change her mind. I would make her feel better by changing her point of view; an idea that is easier said than done. The truth is that, as humans, our bodies might be inches apart, but our minds are often nowhere near each other and you would never know the difference. With this handicap in place, to achieve successful argumentative communication, you must attempt to make someone understand yourself well enough for them to decide that your particular viewpoint is better than the one that they have come to know as fact. To do this, you have to communicate, but unfortunately communication is a human shortfall. Granted, we seem to do it better than animals, having created hundreds of languages with elaborate "words", but if telepathy were the ultimate goal, we have tried are best and failed. What about communicating those feelings that are more difficult to wrap our opposable thumbs around? Some of our most genuine efforts to communicate are stopped short by our own invention. We must rely on vowels and definitions to communicate the crazy mute emotions that our brains stew in. The fact is, we can only go so far to communicate a point to someone. After having made our best vocal attempts at pronouncing feelings that, in a broader sense, have no established boundaries to attach a definition to, we must assume that the person understands. But do they really understand?

If there is a key to successful argumentative communication, it is rationalization. If Ali was anything, she was rational. She might deny it, but one would expect a truly rational person to be discontented with their rational superiority. Ali was a reserved eloquent word wielding witchy woman. Any thought that she allowed to grace her lips was vocalized with a casualness that someone with an opposing point of view might see as uncertainty. The offending person might jab at the uncertainty to corner Ali, but upon attack, she would release a humbling series of premeditated facts, leaving her assailant standing corrected. She seemed to be a passive listener with no obvious intentions, but the truth was that she knew everything.

When she cried, I felt prompted to attempt a conversation where I might motivate some sort of hope in her, but I knew that my explanation would inevitably lead to regurgitating some cliche that I did not even believe. The cliche would be unavoidable because for some reason, "Life goes on," is the only immediate appropriate response to offer someone who is sad. Ali was an über-conscious individual and as soon as the sentence would leave my mouth, it would have been swept away from her ears by the turning of her head, her hair swatting the words back like a horse apathetically shooing away flies with its tail. I respected Ali too much to offer a half-assed attempt at verbal comfort. It wasn't even true. Life, often, does not go on. If you kill yourself, life hardly goes on. This I also I kept to myself and continued with the holding and the agreeing and the hoping that she would come out ok.

As we drifted in and out of each other's company, saying little, I began to fill in the silences with my own manifestations. I assumed that I was an idiot in her eyes. A dopy, conservative, generally apathetic, needy, oaf with an inability to comprehend human needs, to be exact. I knew I was not these things. I had a grasp of the language, therefore, by all means, I was physically capable of communicating an effective point to Ali, but how do you argue with the most rational person in the world?

One night, we lay in bed, quietly. The normal protocol for couple behavoir in a bed-time situation is this: Assuming that sex is finished or improbable, I wrap my arm around her, my hand on her collar bone and her face resting on my hand. The other arm is used to elevate the pillow I lay my head on and hope that there might be some possible way to comfortably fall asleep while spooning. Eventually the elevating arm falls asleep, becomes uncomfortable, and repositioning is needed. Then I turn over, facing the opposite direction as she. This always seems like the wrong thing to be doing, as though I am ignoring her, though it is the inevitable sleeping position. If I don't consciously do it, I will end up that way in the morning. Facing the opposite direction, sleep is attainable. On the evening that I decided to speak to her, she lay on her normal side, positioning her body in an intrusive inward curl that made cuddling impossible; her way of saying, "I don't want to be touched." I stared at the ceiling, unsure of how to sleep, and she lay curled in a ball by my side.

For days, she had mourned continuously. Not in an annoying, self-deprecating way, but in a way that pains you because it is so adequate and understandable. Her sadness became unbearable and I decided to say something. I evaluated the different forms of approach in my head and rehearsed an improvised speech. It had to be practical, understandable, relateable, not too preachy, and not too existential. I worried that she would be asleep by the time I found the right thing to say. Five to ten minutes elapsed from when I decided to say something and when I actually said anything. Finally I spoke. She responded, still awake.

I cleared my throat and spoke at a dull, personal tone. I could barely hear myself, but I kept on. If you were to ask me what I said immediately after I said it, I probably could not have told you, so obviously I do not remember now. I spoke thoughts using words, vowels connected by consonants. I tried not to sound over-the-top bohemian, but my message was essentially "eat, drink, and be merry". At the end of my speech, I sat in the silence. I knew I had said something, but the relief that I expected to come from speaking did not come.

I didn't expect a reaction and it surprised me when she rolled over, quietly, and kissed me. A full lipped kiss that expressed something that I am incapable of communicating.

The details afterwards are sketchy. In the dark, I seem to remember her whispering "Thank you." Maybe she didn't, though. Perhaps the kisses that night were her way of saying "Silly boy, stick to what you're good at." More likely is that my brain, dependent on things heard or seen, is putting words to a speechless and invisible gesture: that kiss. I like to think that I said something acceptable and for the rest of that night, things were ok. But more than I hope that my reward was merited, I hope that I crossed physical barriers, and in a very human attempt, expressed my thoughts well enough for Ali's uncompromising, ever accurate mind to be comforted.