{"id":509,"date":"2017-05-01T00:00:38","date_gmt":"2017-05-01T07:00:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/?p=509"},"modified":"2023-06-28T17:58:01","modified_gmt":"2023-06-29T00:58:01","slug":"encounters","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/","title":{"rendered":"Encounters"},"content":{"rendered":"\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
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Encounters<\/h1>\n\n\n<\/div>\n \n \n By<\/span>Claire Charrier<\/strong>\n \n May 1, 2017<\/span>\n <\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
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THE BOOK<\/em><\/p>\n

Some writers don\u2019t come with a warning. Their book is appealing, something intimate seems to be floating around it. You fall for it. So easily. And then you actually read it \u2014 and fall just after having started page 12. I remember reading Rupi Kaur when I was so not ready for it. I remember reading Rupi Kaur when she was probably the only voice I needed. Her poems were the voice of the story I was still struggling to understand.<\/p>\n

Of a story which was lacking a few pages.<\/em><\/p>\n

And she pulled me in, said \u00ab listen, this is what you felt. And it\u2019s okay. It\u2019s not your fault. \u00bb<\/p>\n

I remember being unable to breathe while reading her, having fallen in the middle of the Last Bookstore. I remember reading it all. Twice. Before I even left the place, its pages firmly in my hand. One piece had a major influence on me even taking a writing workshop:<\/p>\n

\u00ab my heart woke me crying last night \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0how can i help\u00a0<\/em>i begged \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0my heart said \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0write the book\u00a0<\/em>\u00bb<\/p>\n

I have been writing for years. Writing is making me\u00a0be<\/em>. Writing is my remedy \u2014 my texts are full of emptiness, bitterness, joy, lacking. They tell about feeling lost but not about the way I felt it, or if they do, only undercover. While pretending I\u2019m telling the story of someone really remote, whose struggles and urges are the opposite of mine.<\/p>\n

One of the characters I relate to most is a personification of rage that always refuses to get too close to people. To her, attachment is a weakness, a dependence, a disease, probably because people I love are the only home I recognize. In the same time, she represents my struggle with writing. In her voice, my expression of personal ant\u00e9c\u00e9dents tend to get more opaque.<\/p>\n

Still, I explore more of my character\u2019s personality, needs, and urges than mine when I write. It\u2019s probably why it has never been \u2018the book\u2019 \u2014 the one that gets so personal and intimate the reader can be pulled in, and not leave the words exactly the same person as before.<\/p>\n

A very opposite type of writing is a project I\u2019ve been working on is actually to write something that reminds someone of the pleasures of being alive. Of the genuine pleasures of life \u2014 the sounds and smells and people and everything. Take whoever is reading on a journey with the smallest experiences that bring joy to our existence. I know I am unable to write in a tone too personal \u2014 I\u2019m not Rupi Kaur. I\u2019m not fierce, I\u2019m not the\u00a0flame<\/em>.\u00a0I\u2019m the shattered ashes, the 4 shaking letters, dispersed anytime \u2014 by anyone who wants to.<\/p>\n

Some day though, I\u2019ll be able to convey my issues; I know I\u2019m not the only one going through them. They\u2019re pretty basic, when you think in term of 2017 patriarchal norms. I\u00a0know<\/em>\u00a0I will never be her, but her empowered tone made me want to be a voice of my own, to understand myself and express it through characters; to \u2014 through words \u2014 help others. To make writings a shared remedy rather than an isolated one.<\/p>\n

I\u2019ll write the book. Not hers, rather the one she is giving me the strength to pursue.<\/p>\n

\u263c\u263c\u263c<\/p>\n

THE BEAST<\/em><\/p>\n

\u2014 Close that goddamn book, you can read it back in France, mutters your then-42-year old Mother, sunscreen peeling on her already-pink nose.<\/p>\n

\u2014 Yes Mum.<\/p>\n

\u2014 Claire?<\/p>\n

\u2014 I\u2019m just finishing one line\u2014 page.<\/p>\n

Your brother sneezes jealous\/disillusioned words. You\u2019re not sure you\u2019re even hearing it, but it\u2019s probably something along the lines of: \u2018\u2018I told you she had always chosen her books before me. Not sure why you still hope to be her favorite.\u2019\u2019<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not that you would mind going into the water with you mother, it\u2019s more that you have to know what happens to Emily Ruff before you do so. You never know when you\u2019ll have the chance to follow her steps again. Sure, your mother only wants one to two hours with you, but if you start agreeing with her, then Pierre and Swann, your younger brothers, will require attention too. And after, it\u2019s the sightseeing, the cafeteria, the nice tango place he spotted.<\/p>\n

Not that you don\u2019t like tango, more that you don\u2019t like Miami. Why does every salesman need to speak French? How are you supposed to get impregnated by a culture that\u2019s just adjusting to its tourists? It bores you, and since you\u2019re the only one interested in museums, you know you won\u2019t get much from this town. What\u2019s even the point of traveling if you don\u2019t get to discover a new perspective\/vision\/taste?<\/p>\n

Newness is the honey to which you are the bee. Or maybe the Winnie-the-Pooh, considering how bad you are with the stinging. Anyway,\u00a0Neophilia<\/em>\u00a0could have been your name, and none of it is being fed in this town. Miami is palm trees, city lights and skyscrapers, stale heat. Its nature is merely an ornament. It\u2019s like the whole town is a hotel, hiding its behind-the-scenes-action\u2014 a place for people to cross, to get what they\u00a0know<\/em>, but it can\u2019t even remotely produce the illusion of a home. It\u2019s been photoshopped to the point there is no soul left.<\/p>\n

Some would say Los Angeles is, too, but they fail to realize that the Pacific twin is a city built on\u00a0dreams<\/em>. There, you can feel the songs that have never been written, the movies that have never been shot, the books that have never been born. The city is fueled by the ideas and projects and hopes of millions of strangers. You can feel their souls if you pay attention.<\/p>\n

Yet man, you\u2019re not touching that book before what, 11pm? Time at which your parents will come by to put everyone to sleep \u2018\u2018yes-you-too-Claire-you-don\u2019t-want-to-be-a-bad-role-model-for-your-brothers-so-can-you-please-turn-out-your-light-and-your-phone-you\u2019d-be-lovely.\u201d Unbelievable. Like anyone can resist that long when they really love something.<\/p>\n

Your internal monologue made you lose track of your line, and you realize you\u2019re just reading the same paragraph over and over. You give up and close the book \u2014 you actually appreciate when some sand finds its way inside, for the next time you\u2019ll get lost in\u00a0Lexicon<\/em>, you\u2019ll remember where you first met these characters.<\/p>\n

\u2014 I\u2019m done, are you ready?<\/p>\n

\u2014 Do you mind putting some sunscreen on my back?<\/p>\n

\u2014 Got you, Mom!<\/p>\n

There is a weird freedom in the gesture of pouring sunscreen on someone\u2019s body. It\u2019s gentle and light, unless they don\u2019t like it light. It\u2019s getting in touch with human skin again. It\u2019s getting closer to home. You leave out the bitch attitude and genuinely enjoy holding your mother\u2019s hand as your feet enter the ocean.<\/p>\n

Of course, she would make\u00a0a\u00a0scene<\/em>. You know that dance, the \u2018\u2018how-little-can-I-touch-the-water-while-giving-the-illusion-I-went-for-it,\u2019\u2019 for which your mother could probably win awards. Your approach is closer to a \u2018\u2018how-fast-can-every-inch-in-my-body-be-wet\u2019\u2019 kind of plunge. Your chin touches the sand, you were still too close to the beach, but you don\u2019t really mind.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s almost funny how you can reject a moment and then so fully go into it. I suppose it\u2019s the way you handle anything that requires physical movement. After giving a freezing hug to your mother, you do convince her to come swim with you, and you leave the shore to start the gossiping section. Your mother does love gossiping about her friends too much, but it keeps the orientation matter out of view, so you go for it.<\/p>\n

At some point though, you notice the presence of a rock. Like the biggest rock you have seen on this beach, five times your size at least. Like the biggest\u00a0moving<\/em>\u00a0rock you have ever seen ever. Rocks don\u2019t move. This is not a rock. You are somewhere between puzzled and utterly mesmerized by this\u00a0Vision<\/em>. (Caps are important. Caps stand for things that matter, the things you do not yet understand.) And why is Its last flipper moving vertically? \u00a0You may be leaving the scientific stream as of this summer, but you remember your Biology classes well enough. Cetacean flippers\u2019 movements are horizontals. What is This, then?<\/p>\n

You plunge your head in the water, trying to get a clearer view of its shape, but the salt assaults your eyes and by the time your eyes get acclimated, all you can see is confirmation of Its flipper\u2019s movements. Which you already knew, since that\u2019s what got your attention in the first place. What you needed was Its face. From your understanding of its size and the peacefulness that characterized it, This could be a basking shark. Could be. Considering Its fin was somewhere between small and non-existent, you are not that sure.<\/p>\n

Hey. Look at me. Please<\/em>. Its silence so mystical it is almost loud. You almost forget you\u2019re looking for information, waste time admiring the spiritual aura attached to The Creature.\u00a0Focus. I just want to know whether or not you have an enlarged mouth and highly developed gill rakers. Tell me your story. Come on. Don\u2019t leave me. It\u2019s too soon.\u00a0<\/em>You swim faster, but It is already out of your reach. You swim back to the surface, exhale, realize your mother is nowhere to be seen. The dream vanishes.<\/p>\n

No. No. Not possible. She\u2019s here. She was here a minute ago. Two maybe? You search for her face and finally find her, alive and… almost 100 feet away from you. She\u2019s screaming, but it has nothing to do with the ocean entrance dance. She\u2019s worried. Apparently instead of avoiding the animal, you followed it and got even farther from the shore, when she assumed you\u2019d be right behind her, swimming to the sand area.<\/p>\n

Whoopsie. In a non-ironic way: you didn\u2019t mean to scare her, you are just reminded of how easily you do it. Fifteen years old and still unable to fear what you don\u2019t know. It\u2019s not like this is not a familiar situation: how close do you get to death anytime an animal is involved? This one was different, though. This one felt bigger than life itself.<\/p>\n

You try to get the discussion right on track, because if everyone is safe and sound, there is only one question to answer:<\/p>\n

\u2014 What was it?<\/p>\n

Agreed, John Doe. The stranger who is coming toward you and his partner-in-crime are wearing professional diving equipment. They are full of questions, half of which you\u2019re unable to answer. Not that you don\u2019t want to \u2014 let\u2019s appreciate the fact that they\u2019re speaking English, which deserves an Amen \u2014 more that you failed to observe the information they are looking for.<\/p>\n

As they thank you and leave in Its direction, you notice two helicopters breathing wind above your heads. You were not dreaming.\u00a0Something<\/em>\u00a0is happening \u2014something big. Mom puts her hand over your shoulder, pressing it more than she thinks she does. Is she trying to comfort you, to stay still, or to find balance between her own amazement and your necessary lecture? Her words slowly confirm the latter. Can you call someone out for their reckless behavior when they cannot see the risk?<\/p>\n

Murmurs and exclamations await as you get closer to the beach. You are glad you are always the one in charge of translation for hotels reservations and trips organization. Neither your brothers nor your father understand English. Since the older of your brothers has nightmare issues, your mother and you agree to avoid enlightening them on the motives behind the sudden collective excitement. It will remain your secret.<\/p>\n

A very powerful one, when one knows sealife mysteries have always been one of your obsessions. A few months before, you had been trying to raise funding for a scientific project aimed at decoding cetacean communication systems. You wanted to know all of it. The purrs, the screams, the wops that some musicians at times wrote sheet music with.<\/p>\n

It is more than a melody. It\u2019s a whole language, one still getting lost in translation, but you want to participate in bridging the gap. Does the Creature feel the same way? Is that why It came so close to you without expressing any aggressiveness? Did It try to communicate with you at frequencies you could not possibly grasp?<\/p>\n

Some call you odd when they become aware of the contradiction between your uneasiness in talking to other members of the human species and your facility with animals and fictional characters. A communication fascination and will of understanding that may or may not take root in a childhood conviction. While I didn\u2019t believe in Santa Claus for very long, as a child I was sure that I was my dog\u2019s sister.<\/p>\n

As your wet self falls on the sandy towel, you even forget your book. You cannot hear the human chatter. A peaceful smile lies on your salty lips. You make a grateful promise to your gray acquaintance.<\/p>\n

May we get to know each other.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

\u263c\u263c\u263c<\/p>\n

THE ONE<\/em><\/p>\n

Jump\u203d<\/em><\/p>\n

You\u2019re leaving. I know you are. You won\u2019t say it since we know the train\u2019s coming, but you are \u2014 and it\u2019s tearing our throats apart.<\/p>\n

Sometimes I just want to be an hour slayer. I want to cut them to pieces and keep them in a flask. Not just a small bottle like the one you poured your perfume into so I could smell you whenever I need to. One less precious, and with more space within it so I could put these portions of time in it. Clocks could call them over and over, but the seconds wouldn\u2019t hear it, trapped in my malicious flask. It would be perfect, wouldn\u2019t it?<\/p>\n

Isn\u2019t it the saddest thing there is, when you know you\u2019re living a moment you will remember all your life, but it\u2019s already fleeing? When you’re too self-conscious even in your silent communion? Your heartbeat is raising faster and I know it has nothing to do with the discomfort on the trampoline. Mine is almost painfully echoing your rhythm.<\/p>\n

We know we could say it. Right now. On this trampoline where no one can see us. The black net is casting a shadow on your nose to prevent any sunburn. Mats below are making sure we remain in this perfect altitude \u2014 the one that\u2019s slightly above the ground, that defies gravity, the one that keeps us locked in a dream for a few more instants.<\/p>\n

It\u2019d be so easy \u2014dangerously easy. Or is it easily dangerous? I\u2019m not quite sure. We\u2019ve loved and been loved before. We know how it goes. How it hardly ever ends smoothly. How we deserve so much better. How we want to be by each other\u2019s side for as many years as possible. How we can\u2019t risk it.<\/p>\n

It doesn\u2019t sound like a risk right now, though. Quite the opposite actually. You\u2019re my safe space, my home in the messy sweaty magma we call life. The one whose words soften any pain \u2014 under the dragon scales lies the warmest form of hope there is. Does life ever get better than this? A blue sky that\u2019s imperceptibly turning orange, announcing the impossible. It feels like summer \u2014both from the cat\u2019s paws on the dry grass, your wet T-shirt, the lavender crumbling under our arms, your sunscreen\u2019s smell.<\/p>\n

Pine trees and planes fight their way in for our attention, although \u2014 to be fair \u2014\u00a0the only wind I care about is your breath.<\/p>\n

Sometimes, the picture quietly dissolves, and I\u2019m thrown back to the other side of the ocean, from which I can only contemplate our memories as a stranger, an outsider of our connection. I\u2019m not sure why it aches so badly.<\/p>\n

On other days, the Californian weather actually helps. I look for an odd thing to lie on and just look at the sky, the way some people look at a pool when they\u2019re still afraid of diving. A part of me sees the possibility of coming out of this daydream as a cold threat \u2014 the idea of re-living your disappearance makes me shiver. Yet, I imagine your face, 5642 miles from here, possibly searching for the same trampoline, and the perspective helps me dive in.<\/p>\n

And then, then there\u2019s no need for me to jump all around pretending to be busy doing things that don\u2019t actually matter.<\/p>\n

Then, we\u2019re flying on the wind of silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n\n \n \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

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Claire Charrier<\/strong><\/span> is an exchange student from Paris. Her main interests include \u2013 but are not limited to \u2013 social justice, intersectional feminism and international relations. If she were a punctuation mark, she would be the interrobang. \u203d\u203d\u203d\u203d\u203d<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n<\/div>\n\n\n <\/div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":288,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[30],"tags":[52],"class_list":["post-509","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-spring-2017","tag-prose"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nEncounters<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Encounters - Palaver Arts Magazine\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"Palaver Arts Magazine\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/palaver.arts.magazine\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2017-05-01T07:00:38+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2023-06-29T00:58:01+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/wp-content\/uploads\/sites\/175\/2023\/06\/palaver-logo.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"710\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"198\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"akcannon\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"akcannon\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/live-usc-dornsife.pantheonsite.io\/palaver\/#\/schema\/person\/8ac801b3c8176b6860207b43ecbe9e78\"},\"headline\":\"Encounters\",\"datePublished\":\"2017-05-01T07:00:38+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2023-06-29T00:58:01+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/\"},\"wordCount\":1,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/live-usc-dornsife.pantheonsite.io\/palaver\/#organization\"},\"keywords\":[\"Prose\"],\"articleSection\":[\"Issue 01: Spring 2017\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/dornsife.usc.edu\/palaver\/spring-2017\/encounters\/\",\"name\":\"Encounters - 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