At lunch they sit on boxes and cans of paint and primer all around my living room turned construction zone. They speak Cantonese, a low quick singing to my ear. They’ve brought me lunch in a take out container, boiled strips of chicken and some large leafed steamed vegetable, all of it covered in watery gravy that looks a little like mucous. They watched me eat for a few minutes and then they started talking.
They look up at a hinged, architect’s style, lamp that they’ve just installed on the wall above my writing desk. Loung starts talking in a lecturing tone, pointing to his elbow, pointing to the hinge of it as he moves it. I think they are talking about how the lamp hinges. Kuo and Lin move their elbows and nod their heads in understanding. More quick low Cantonese singing. Now they are pointing to a scar on Loung’s arm, near the elbow, and he mimes a fall and I think he is talking about how he got it. Now all three of them are pulling up shirts or turning over palms to show old scars.
I’m fascinated by how a gesture can turn into a fully articulated thought, an entire concept. Since they started work three weeks ago I’ve started to speak wholly in gestures. When they are gone I catch myself still speaking in gestures, speaking to myself by throwing my hands into the air, or rolling my neck forward and my shoulders back.
Just today I tried to find a way to tell them J.D. Salinger had died. First with words, “writer”, “artist”, “like me”. Then I made like typing on a computer keyboard. But that seemed wrong, too modern, so I made like writing a scroll, touching the tip of an imaginary quill to my tongue. They didn’t understand, looking back at me with blank good nature. Finally I made like a typewriter, typing big in the air with the index fingers of both hands, then making the noise and motion of the return mechanism. They got that. And then I pointed to a picture of Salinger from one of his book jackets. I said his name and ran my finger across my throat. Then the word “today” which I knew they understood. Picture, typewriter, finger across throat, “Today”. Typewriter, picture, finger across throat, “Today”. Finger across throat, picture, typewriter, “today”. They nodded, probably thinking Salinger had killed himself with a typewriter. Floating there somewhere around all those gestures was the real truth.
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Notes:
This was recreated from an incident that happened a few months ago while I was doing some renovations on my apartment. I really don't know where it's going. And this is obviously not the end, but I hit my word count and couldn't find any way to wrap it up. That's also a reason why it doesn't have a title. I'll be better tomorrow. promise.
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