-Steve Irwin
When you start people watching something funny happens. All of a sudden you're removed from humanity. You're the watcher, not the watched. I think that we define ourselves in relation to people. When we separate from them this definition starts to get blurry. Who we are no longer matters. It is no longer tangible to us simply because it is no longer tangible to them. We are the watcher, the other, the detached eyes floating somewhere between elsewhere and nowhere. We are the player on the bench. We can watch the game without having to exist in it. Most of all, we don't have to play by its rules.
Now comes a stern woman, middle aged, hair cropped short, tight lips and no sense of humor. She's going to meet someone. To say goodbye. The heels don't look good on her. They look good on the world, but not her. She hates her tweed pencil skirt but wears it anyway. A young businessman stares at her ass. She notices and wants to break his neck; it's a good thing we didn't do that. Then she's gone.
The businessman looks competent and he wants it that way. If we noticed the faint smudge of red nail polish on the knot of his tie we'd know that it wasn't tied by him. He never knew his father. If we saw the new stitching on the cuff of his tailored pant leg we'd know that it wasn't tailored for him. If we saw the bead of sweat running from his hairline behind his left ear we'd know he was nervous. If we paid more attention when he bumped into the balding senior we'd have known he was preoccupied. But we didn't. So, we saw a businessman. Then he's gone.
The balding senior looks good today. He has a jump in his step that he hasn't had for a long time. He's wearing jeans and a red sweater and he looks good. Here is a man who was on his way to the top once. Two cardiac arrests and a pulmonary bypass later and his money is nearly gone. The clothes, cars, everything sold for the last medical bill. Now he's fiddle fit, on his way back up. That's okay, because he'll make it this time. And money, no matter how much, is always a fair trade for life. Then he's gone.
If we knew that the stern woman was a lieutenant, that in three days time she would fly back to Afghanistan, that in thirty-one days time she would lose her leg from an IED, we might have been more grateful to her. But we didn't know that. So we weren't.
If we knew that the businessman wasn't a businessman, that he was on his way to court, that in three hours time he would be found guilty of a crime he didn't commit, we might have liked to testify for him. But we can't have known that. So we couldn't.
If we knew that the balding senior's pump dislodged just then, that he would be dead in thirty-one seconds time, we might have wanted to run to him. We might have told him that his old suit helped a young man feel confident in a most helpless time. We might have told him that his daughter would be a hero. But we hadn't known that. So we didn't.
Small fragments mean little. The big picture means everything. Sit out of the game for a while and you start to see how beautiful it is. Sit out of the game for a while, and you start to realize how much you want to play. And, well, crikey that's a big one!
d.
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