It was only two days, yet my legs are left angry, complaining of walking for what seemed like a week and a few hours. It must have been my nervous cyclical circling of tables and groups chatting seeking a way in. I paced unevenly between the various discussions and paneled my interest with smiles and smirk filled nods as that odd incoherent question to a hero who I couldn’t release unquestioned.
Few knew who I was or am or who I may be or become, a fact truer than my knowledge of that fact or current fiction, And who I was seemed to come forth and drown who I thought I was becoming because of what I lacked. I left too wide a slit in the door for that not to occur. I was a timid awkward geek who feared too much.
A poet read and I paced the distance she had traveled here. When would my legs carry me close enough to…to…I wasn’t quite certain of why I was hoping to get close? I knew I would babble and I walked on as the woman with the blue Marcel-style scarf looked at my passing with pity, not pity that I couldn’t approach but pity to a man who seemed relieved in failure and she took my spot and shook hands with the poet. I didn’t need an autograph or expected her to know my name the next year we meet, I needed to meet.
As Wadsworth and Keats wrestled over my use of I, I prepared for my presentation. It was a last minute drool with no time for revision as was my style. I was looking at the few who sacrificed sleep to attend and do their best to present an interested face, giving them loosely linked words. The interest didn’t seem that contrived the more I went on. Perhaps I was making some sense. If only I could listen to my own words instead of those voices of imprisoned grappling writers who mocked me and undermined any coherent proclamation. The poet came to me as destiny rehearsing her game. Surely she couldn’t have meant that my presentation was as fantastic as she announced. Was it just the product of the customary congratulatory comment native to conference camaraderie? She smiled again to confirm her delight and promised to visit my blog. My blog? This triviality?
The conference broke for lunch. Feeling a bit more confident that I would not suffer any bites, I gave my legs some rest and struck limited conversation with the woman sharing my table. Although I felt it her table by the way in which she snuck a wondering peak of “why is this awkward unpublished man here?”
She did her best to politely end the conversation and I worried. As I saw her the next day, I sent a passing greeting as casually as I could to avert any awkwardness and misrepresentation. Her uneasy smile damned me back to 9th grade.
Marching into a peaceful exercise unarmed rendered me battle worn.
And I was an outsider again. The second day felt like a sentence of no performable tasks giving demons exercise. What venture undertook me?
My desire to become what each of them has become, a published Arab writer, kept me confined comfortless.
The two-day self-inflicted anguish ended, but I had questions left unasked and heroes unapproached. I survived…regretfully.
