strangers

I am at the fair walking around. Cecilia and I look rather stoic and aloof in our sunglasses and I like that image. This woman grabs her daughter's hand and says, "you better take my hand, there are strangers everywhere."

Which, when you think about it, is a funny thing to say. What else would they be? Did the mother come to the carnival thinking that three hundred of her closest friends and relatives would be riding the spaceship or stumbling through the mardi gras fun house?

"Honey, do you want to run out to the grocery store with me?"

"No I better not, there could be strangers there."

And the word "strangers." It must feel alarming to look at a crowd of people and just see the word stranger flashing over and over. I guess there are only two kinds of people in the world afterall: strangers and non-strangers.

It makes me think though-- to most people, I am a stranger. And if its numbers that count, my overwhelming identity would be that of stranger. Its not too hard to be a stranger; most people are really good at it with out exuding effort or becoming self-concious in their attempts. Sure there are anamolies, like occasional friendships and kin, but overwhelmingly, we stay strangers.

Whats the in-between of a stranger and a friend? Often, friends make good strangers. We are all in a state of flux becoming more or less like strangers as we move around or dont move around. Yesterday there was a man in front of me in line dressed like a woman. She had breasts and teased hair, but big sad boy eyes, even with the eyeliner. She turned around to face me and said, "Sometimes you get what you're looking for, sometimes you dont," which sounds about right. I think it was a prophesy.

She was buying a book, a book that was one of the first books my mother read a loud to me. Little House in the Big Woods. Which seems significant: we are little dots in a big place, shifting on a gray scale of strangeness.