Two tunes composed of all the same notes, in barely different order. The flute player starts one of the tunes, and the fiddle player on the other side of the circle thinks it’s the other and saws away at the tune they heard, which is not the one that sounded. Other players in the circle look at each other, some grasping with their instruments for whatever configuration of the notes feels most familiar, and the tune that began new and unexplored becomes the same one we played all those other times.
Two breasts, two legs, a dress, sure, but what about the imagination as wonderful and gushy and complex as the guts of a ripe tomato, and an identity that grows with nuance and explodes like a dandelion in the wind? What are you glossing over when you call this enigma a girl?
I am Jaime, and I am not the person you knew in sixth grade or the one who you went to karate lessons with or the one to whom your brother is married whose name is Jamie.
The dissonance stems from beyond the place of clerical error, and error at all. It’s not about getting the answers right, or being good, or appeasing peeves.
It’s about allowing yourself the presence to observe the thing that it is for however long it takes to realize it’s not the same as every other thing you already know.
Give yourself a damn minute to give new people a breathing, thinking chance.
Give new ideas a chance to resonate on their spoken frequency.
Give old ones new chances, too.