Psychofauna

Week 5: Jonah & the Whale

Previously: Common knowledge topples a dictator. Dreams get weird in the age of Psi.

○ The Great Opening: Week Five, Manhattan

"Still singing in the choir? Poly-pony?"

"Still singing."

It's the little ritual that I've held with Mihret, the waitress, for a decade. I don't correct her anymore with, "It's polyphony, and it's a not a choir. It's a vocal ensemble of old Albanian men that took me two years to be accepted by." Instead, I'll ask her: "How about you? Still singing?"

And she'll say: "Oh yes, sing every week. I learned three new songs. Very joyful."

Or maybe: "Yes, but they put me next to the alto again. Her voice is like a squeaking bird. And she smells like old cabbage! Hehe."

We still talk like this. The fact that a new world has dawned hasn't changed anything.

Yesterday, I tried to describe it, this way we still talk. I wrote down, It's our birdsong ritual, and thought ooh, that's good! If Mihret and I spoke instead about the weather outside Caffe Reggio, the meaning would be the same:

Hey, I like you!

Hey, I like you too!

Soon, these birdsongs might be obsolete. The meanings behind them arrive inside each other's minds before we even sing. So what use are the notes?

A few minutes ago, I asked a woman, "Are you in line for the bathroom?" She said, "Yes," but meant, Don't even think of cutting in front of me, bub. Later tonight, I'll see my ex-wife and ask, "How are you?" but my meaning will be clear: Please don't take my daughter away. She'll reply, "Good, how are you?" meaning: How many episodes have you suffered lately?

Granted, these meanings are ones you could've guessed from body language or tone even before "The Opening" – the name we seem to be settling on. But now we're able to pick up on subtler meanings. Stranger ones.

Just yesterday, a tourist asked me for directions to the subway, but the meaning I got was something like, Please confirm that I am unloveable. I tried my best to beam the opposite at her while saying, "Two blocks that way and a left." She looked at me skeptically, as if I'd given her the wrong directions.

The day before, I knocked a man's shoulder by accident while passing through Times Square. I said, "Sorry!" He said, "All good, brotha!" but the meaning which washed over me was I'm a god between the sheets. I may have misinterpreted, but my face must have reacted, because then he said, unprompted, "Haha, that's right. Have a blessed day." I still wonder whether we were on the same page.

We percolate through one other's inner worlds, like paints mixing in water. Some people say it's always been this way. But the effects grow stronger as the weeks pass. Maybe a year from now, no one will speak at all. We'll just make eye contact. Or not even. We'll just stand close to each other and bask or cringe in waves of subtle meaning. What will there be left to say, other than to confirm: wow, ew, or I like you?

Well, for one thing, numbers are still difficult. So is anything requiring specificity. For instance, now, when Mihret asks, "What can I get you dear?" I will still need to point to the menu and specify, cheese cake to differentiate the object of my craving from nutella croissant.

But actually I won't, because I order the same thing every time.

"Cappuccino and cannoli?" she asks.

"You got it."