Sinister: Felicity, Holly, Oscar, Virginia, Vera, Charles, babies, mothers, breasts and monkeys.

[Ruvi Simmons]

In light of Ms. Lark's comments about square dancing, I thought I'd mention
my one and only experience with that particular brand of rhythmical
movement. I was, I think, 8 years old, and utterly besotted with a freckly,
black-haired girl called Felicity. What a wonderful name it is, a throw back
to the days when girls were called things like Providence, Epiphany or
Constance, names which carried a certain weight of years and meaning with
them. I had a friendly relationship with Felicity, although we never really
talked too deeply or extensively. I contented myself then, as I still do
now, for the seeds sown in childhood are hard to escape from (not that
escape is necessary), with admiring her from afar, and no one ever suspected
that I was deeply infatuated with her. It has always been a curse of my life
that I am too successful at concealing my thoughts and feelings from others.
If only I were, not exactly transparent, but suggestive when it comes to my
emotions at any given time. Instead I deceive without meaning or wanting to,
and mis-lead when I would rather be understood. But I digress. One day, we
were assembled in a hall with cold, badly varnished floor. It was PE, and I
was wearing the ubiquitous navy blue shorts that barely accounted for
decency, white t-shirt and increasingly sullied plimsoles. For a change, the
teacher said, we would be dancing. Square dancing. To that end we to be
paired off, boy and girl. I felt a thrill of excitement at this novelty and,
of course, hoped fervently that I would be blessed with having Felicity as
my dancing partner. I had never been interested in dancing, being a chubby
and unwieldy boy at the time, self-conscious and filled with loathing at my
rolls of excess baby fat, but the possibility that I may be selected to
dance with Felicity invested square dancing with significance. And so it is
that when something which one was previously indifferent to becomes a means
to a desired end, it suddenly becomes the subject of desire and interest.
But it was not to be. Instead, I was given the hand of another girl, one who
I can't remember. Indeed, my memories of that lesson end after the
disappointment of not being able to dance with my distant beloved, becoming
an indistinct blur of hazy boredom and discomfort. Eventually, after
stumbling around clumsily to the strains of country music that emanated from
the cheap stereo mounted at the front the lesson ended and we assembled by
the entrance to be dismissed. The teacher, before sending us on our way,
told us we would be doing the same next time, and selected new pairs. Then,
ladies and gentleman of the jury (I hope that, if any relative or
afficionado of Nabokov is reading this, they will forgive my slight
plagiarism), fortune favoured me in a way that happens but rarely. It was if
events were actually conspiring to work for me. "Ruvi and....Felicity," that
was what the teacher said so casually, unaware of the gravity of the
selection to me. I could barely wait for the next lesson, where before I had
viewed PE lessons with an unpleasant mixture of humiliation at the scant
clothing and disgust with the pointless physical drilling we underwent. This
time was different however, and I looked forward to PE with hopes and in
anticipation of bliss. Proximity with my dear Felicity without the need to
reveal my feelings. Eventually, after the days dragged by, the time came for
our next PE lesson, and we assembled once more in the cold hall. Then,
fortune played one of its sadistic, perverse, absurd jokes. I looked over at
Felicity, and my interest in her, my attraction to her, disappeared with the
carelessness of a sudden death. In truth, she wasn't looking her best,
having just woken up (PE was, cruelly, the first lesson of the day), and she
had puffy bags around her eyes that made them look like pitted olives
swollen with retained water. But nevetheless, the disappearance of
attraction was more fundamental. It had gone, and it was never to return.
The lesson passed uncomfortably, and I could barely bring myself to look
into Felicity's face. From that point on I had little to say to her and when
we finally left that school and dispersed like a handful of sycamore buds
tossed into the wind I saw her no more. And that, in sum, is my experience
of square dancing. Love that packed its bags and left when the vessel which
is flowed towards was so close and so tangible. Fate could have made this
little story end differently. There was another girl, you see, whose power
over me endured far longer, far beyond the point at which contact with her
ended. Holly Haggley-Pierson was her name, and you'll probably consider it
ugly, but I adored it like I adored everything else about her. We used to
argue, like most young children do when gripped by a strange attraction.
Once more, I hid my deep, abiding infatuation from her so successfully that
nobody ever detected my secret. And she has disappeared her way, and I mine,
and that is that. If I saw her again, no doubt it would be entirely
different; she would detest me, or she would bore me, or we would orbit
different worlds. In a way, meeting her again would efface the happy memory
of her which I still retain, and that would be an act more painful than any
rejection.

And so my little childhood anecdotes end. I have been awake for hours now,
and I must sleep. I had intended to write more (I promise I won't pursue
this intention), but I became rather more immersed in recollections than I
had foreseen. I will put off the inclusion of musical content, pithy
observations, glib wit, trumpet-blowing and other sundries for another day,
preferably a rainy one. I will put them aside and not worry, safe in the
probably illusory knowledge that, next time, oh yes, things will be
different. A post will be written so dazzling, so comprehensive, as to make
Oscar Wilde roll in his grave, the ghost of Virginia Woolf (or perhaps Vera
Zasulich, since Russian revolutionaries are infinitely more attractive to my
tastes) give herself to me, Charles Baudelaire come back for one last
attempt at the divine, babies cry for the safety of their mother's breasts,
and monkeys blush.

Ruvi.

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