I walked towards you as we met through a glass pane. A smudgy cobweb framed glass window. A very theatrical setting for a very unexpected first encounter. You seemed nervous, yet self assured. The space between us creaked open and I was confronted by your boxed and stereotyped physique. The top-heavy deliberate muscular upper torso and your universal buff-guy fashion ended in oversized jeans and a military-cut bleached hairstyle robed in strong aromas of shop bought confidence.
You insisted on your identity as a dancer, an artist; offering your talents and aesthetic revelations chiefly to the fairer of our species. Your high brow self-promotion fell somewhat flat when you revealed your genre (a thinly-clad upgrade) in the form of a low-brow film. You wanted to organise a venue for your party slash show. I was so quick to judge you, even as I saw you anticipating our conversation. Even as I saw your hair and surveyed your physique. How much more so when you revealed your profession to me. How I had to disguise my surprise, and then walk off in excitement to tell the tale. Your whole existence reduced to one disdainful word…which you obviously avoid.
Did I notice how nervously your weight shifted? Did you fear my judgement and then, did you feel it? I quickly tossed you over to someone else. To be dealt with, not to be known.
Image of David Hallberg sourced from: http://www.dawn.com/