We manifest what is in our lives, whether subconsciously or with awakened efforts and yet it seems to me the most overwhelming manifestations are wrought from tidings of the basements levels of my mind.
It saddens me how the ones we love, good and true are often the first to take their leave, while all the lower levels of people are swarming for a moment to share with me. In New York, where we come in contact with thousands of strangers in a week’s time, the human contact is inevitable. With the suffocating humidity of an early August, the animal natures of the crazies and almost crazies are turbulent in the thickness of our air. It’s amazing how my false-followed quest to find a husband has brought incarnations of marriage proposals around every bend.
Just yesterday I walked along Broadway near my abode, nestling a condensating container of yogurt underarm (all a recent quest to improve my health). As I turned the corner of 92nd St., my eyeline was striken with a glimpse of a 60-year-old Russian man, his steely glare was intense enough to freeze the Gulf of Mexico in the middle of July. His negative energy was tangible enough for evil chills to run up and down my side. I immediately shifted my eyes from his person as he broke out into a singsong cry of “Marry me, marry me!” I smiled mildly, turning my head away as he shouts were more torn and desperate of “Please, don’t go my beautiful one. Marry me, marry me!”
Amongst his proposal, a few more non-enticing invites to matrimony have hobbled along my path in the past few weeks or so. A sixteen-year-old Hispanic boy on the steps the Prince Street subway station last week, his child’s big brown eyes too innocent to inspire anything short of a chuckle or two, his proposal quite similar in the “marry me?” Or at Jones Beach, where I worked a promotion under the glaring rays of sun, my hideous company attire of beige shorts and an oversized t-shirt I would not even sport to bed on a night spent alone. Still, a caucasian man in his thirties engaged a five minute conversation on the topic of matrimony.
“But, miss, you don’t have a ring on your finger. Let me find the perfect rock for you. Come on, life is short. Live a little!”
I thought that is what I have been doing. Or the man, David, a curly haired man in his forties, the blonde tresses thick in an effort to conceal the gaping dent in his head. For twenty minutes it seemed every store and subway platform along Penn Station and Herald Square would yield his presence before me, where he shouted how the Fates inspired these chance meetings. As I have always declared, WE make our OWN fate. Was he ever trying his damndest…stalker!
Thankfully I’ve been blessedly cursed with the ability to see my own future in the land of human bonding. Full of turbulence until balance, and I’ll be willing to ride the rough bumps along the way until it all pans out. Until then, I’ll just have to weed through such tempting proposals.