May 30th, 2003


"What are you waiting for?"

She shouted as she crossed the street behind me, catching my attention:

What are you waiting for?

If not for the shouting, she could have passed for normal, with a stainless steel travel mug in hand. She wasn't shouting to me, at least not to her knowledge. She continued, each string of words chilling me more than the last:

Are you waiting to die?
Are you waiting for your soul to explode?
Are you waiting for the Armageddon?
8 years, 10 years, 15 years...
What are you waiting for?

She went on, shouting down the street as she walked. I didn't speak to her. I tried to avoid her eyes. There's the usual apprehension that comes from situations like that, the possibility of violence. No, I was more afraid of the possibility of connection— that this morning, in this time when connecting with others is harder and harder, the crazy lady behind me knows me better than anyone.

The earth quaked here last night, though I didn't feel it. This I felt.

I can answer all your questions, crazy lady. And I can answer most of them with yes. Would that have made you feel less crazy? Are you looking for me?

How many of us are passing for normal? When will I start shouting?
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