More Black, More White

My penchant for pairing competing patterns has nearly grown dull and tired, in the Truman Capote black and white; an inappropriate, or perhaps just poor, segue. Product of age, of a cynical defensive veneer for a slightly less than satisfying professional environment, I find myself dull and tired, when thrust in those parties, exposed to former circles that roll back and overlap with mine once more. Whether distance, or disinterest, or distaste, I find myself mentally silent, unwilling or unable to connect and converse with groups of individuals who had, at some point, been my peers, with varying levels of intimacy and familiarity. Like wild animals posturing, abiding by some deeply evolved organismic contract, we each nod and bob, make some blunt exclamatory jabs. Much of the meat of the content of these canned conversations is gleaned from carefully manicured digital portraits. Shamefully, much of this is likely a shaken self-confidence; from my own internal head space, others glide through, graceful and elegant, or unrelentingly hapless and happy. 

Feeling like I am floating idly in a predetermined current, my tedium and my insecurities at the party gave me pause, produced this reflection. It is not so terribly pessimistic. Mechanic and route though each play is, the artifice of acquaintance and catching up, I do enjoy it, simple and superficial, a glimpse into a past that has now morphed into something else entirely in my memory, a melding of reality and fabrication. It also helps me to appreciate those truly strong, truly significant relationships in my life, those that I have invested time and energy and emotion to nurture. So, when the music is loud, the wine is poured, it is comforting to realize, to truly know where my friends are.