Surface

I have only superficial knowledge, but I am curious about many things. I can't concentrate for too long; it's unbearable. A walk through London makes me feel nauseous. Inside me, radishes and beets shake, turning into a blood-colored soup. It rises up with a slight burp. It smells like seaweed and dogs—I don't know why. Feathers are flying, possibly from seagulls—how did they get here? Or maybe pigeons…

For the first time in a month, I light a Marlboro Gold. Richard Walker and I are heading to the Victoria and Albert Museum. He's my film professor at the university. He is wearing a felt hat. On the corner, they're selling red, pink, and yellow tulips. Across the road, children are walking to primary school. Richard's sticky hair gleams in the distance, reminding me of the sharp edge of a silky canyon—like a warning: be careful, but go on. I spit out words and force myself to finish my cigarette.

I am dressed in a black dress and black platform shoes; my hair is black, my eyes are covered in black shadows. I am going through a black period. I am eighteen.

Richard makes us describe what we see in the museum. He says, I speak beautifully, but I am superficial. Now I understand that he was right. I chose to describe a pair of ancient earrings—I don't even remember from what era—shaped like flowers. With irony, I commented on my choice: Well, I'm a girl, so I picked these. I immediately felt embarrassed by my clichéd remark.

Superficiality. Maybe it's not so bad?

A surface can be smooth or rough, carved, silky blue with a sheen. The surface of a black sea urchin. The surface of a cherry coffin. The surface of a pink apricot. The surface of a camel's back. The surface of a pregnant woman's belly. The surface of a sailing boat. The surface of a frozen lake.

All of them crack open, revealing an inside that might be difficult to see for someone who has no surface at all…