Tinda Lace - An Apt Pseudonym
Tinda Lace feels this way, and when she describes to me what is going on, I watch and listen and wait. Tinda has some insights that come out in a rush of emotion; the words are like lava, burning her throat and tongue as they pour forth. Volcanic activity inside lends to the erupting ... where is the burning to go, if not up and out?
Tinda has seen some things that she is repulsed by. Indignation is one of her cloaks, thrown on abruptly when husbands suffer slutty wives that hide their infidelity, as though no one will ever know; when fathers leave their children to go and do what perverts are prone to; when perfectly healthy babies are injected with strange things that turn their insides out; when people profess faith and act like fiends. Tinda has opinions on such goings on. Tinda is disgusted, and curls the upper lip on the left in grossed out abhorrence.
Tinda, like all guileless creatures, is unfettered in her disapproval; untethered in her sorrowful grieving. Tinda sees, she hears, she suffers, but she does not think it untoward to be obvious and unrestrained: Tinda believes it is strange to pretend, to fake, to act as though she does not know, when she can not help but know, in the worst possible ways.
Tinda heard pastors speak lies for money and she did not like this, not one bit. Tinda says, They are thieves and killers, and; God will get them. I asked her, Tinda, are you concerned people will hate you forever for speaking this way? Tinda was surprised and responded, What ever for?
I look at Tinda as she looks off into space. I see her face change, and I have to ask: What are you thinking of Tinda? The babies, she replies. What babies? What about the babies? She replies, They are sickly you know. They are sickly and their parents are sickly.
I see tears welling in Tinda's eyes before she looks away. I notice she does not turn to avoid me seeing her tears; she looks away as though drawn by a vision off in the distance. I ask her, What do you see Tinda? There is hesitation as her eyes scan the scene. After a long moment, Tinda responds, Graves. I see tiny graves with teddy bears, baby bunnies, and lambs. I see no one standing there; they are all gone.
Tinda is still and I discover I have been holding my breath, waiting for her to speak, shift, move, something, anything to change the tension, and release the pressure I feel building in my own chest. After one moment added to the next and the next, I asked a question that was spoken in a burst of what felt like desperation: Tinda, What are we to do? She turned toward me and our eyes met. Time tripped over itself and lasted an eternity before she spoke what felt like fatal words, Nothing. We are to do nothing; nothing at all. It has begun.
Tinda walks away without a backward glance; instinctively, I know I am not to follow. Something in the way she is carrying herself indicates that she is done with our exchange, and I dare not attempt to draw her back. She is an oddity to me, and I wonder, will I see her again? What did she mean, It has begun? And that vision, of the tiny graves, and the way she seemed so far away ... it startled me and left me bereft of concrete thought to stand on. I felt uncertain and shaky, as though comfort was out of reach. I see Tinda still, traveling to God knows where, and wonder, Does she know where she is heading?
I sense I will indeed, meet Tinda again. Until then, I will watch and wait, and wonder to, if what she said has any validity, or if this was a once in a lifetime appartion that can fade in my memory, leaving barely a water stain mark there.
Tinda Lace, Who are you, and where are you going?
Comments
Post a Comment