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Saturday, Sept. 18, 2004 - 12:53 a.m. WINDOW TO THE SOUL Many of the more cyptic entries in this diary have been centered around my blue eyes. My eyes have always puzzled me. I think my vain infatuation with my eyes began when I experienced mania as a child. During periods of mania, I would find myself staring in the mirror, hypnotized by the blueness of my eyes and the surrounding innocence of my face. When I experienced mania, life was beautiful, colors were beautiful, and, in and through my eyes, I was beautiful. Though I did not understand what moods were at the time, I could clearly demarcate period of my life into what I considered to be emotional colors. Blue, the color of the sky on a sunny day, also the color of my eyes, represented the radiance of the manic phase. In mania, colors became bright and intense, in a sense, metaphorically similar to a Van Gogh painting. Depression, on the other hand, I would compare to a dark, monster green. Its color was akin to the green hue of the Matrix, only much darker. Overall, life, as well as its color, became dull and lifeless. In addition, it was drudgery to open my eyes and view them in the mirror. All I saw was an angry, rejected, suffering person. I vividly remember my years as a toddler. At the time, I was not quite aware of what I looked like, mainly because I was scared to look in the mirror. But I do remember going shopping with my mother to department stores and wherever else we went. Long before I was tall enough to look above the counter, the cashier, no matter where we went, was sure to comment on my “beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair.” I think I lost my blonde hair somewhere around age 8, but the blue eyes apparently stayed the same, even until today, less than two weeks before I turn 28. No matter what has happened in my life, my eyes remain an absolute constancy every time I look in the mirror. My infatuation with my eyes reached its apogee, I think, sometime when I was age 12. At the time, I had just hit puberty and began to fantasize about girls. I had this dream girl in my mind who would instantly know me by my eyes. I suppose I expected her to see in them what I would see during my manic phase when I stared in the mirror. Well, after several years of an isolated adolescence, I eventually gave up on this dream. Instead of the crisp, fresh, innocent beauty I saw in my eyes as a manic child, I began to think that people saw only the angry, bitter version, and the hideousness people saw in them was what was going to keep me alone for the rest of my life. I never thought I could just attract a beautiful woman on looks alone. I have spent so much of my life with absolutely no meddle in my personality, one could assume that if I were at all physically attractive, eventually my looks could out somehow muscle my lack of personality. Granted, I know I am not a physically repulsive person. My problem has always has been that on the inside, my personality is so much larger and more powerful than my outside, no amount of good looks could compensate. People have commented to me in the past that I often look angry when I assume I appear expressionless. Apparently, the guise of my face, when I am in a deep, pensive train of thought, is one of intense fury. Such was the case when I ate a nearby Lebonese Restaurant for lunch yesterday on my day off due to Hurricane Ivan. I go to this restaurant often enough to be on a first name basis with their head waiter while he knows exactly what I want to order. However, yesterday was different. I was served by this beautiful young waitress I had never seen there before. Of course, I was eating alone. Aloof and uncaring, and thinking whatever I was thinking, the waitress took my order. I noticed her accent that sounded out of place in Baton Rouge. I even considered the possibility that it was foreign. However, I paid no real attention to her as I was just looking to satisfy my appetite and leave. Then as she came to fill my water, she took and step back and asked, “Are you mad at me?” Realizing the habitual disposition of my face, I immediately reversed it to a smile and apologized for giving her that impression. From then on, any contact I made with her was with a smile on my face. She, in turn, smiled back, which sparked more smiling. Next, she came out to wash a nearby table. Then I suddenly heard from her a compliment I had often heard in Lafayette that I had truly yet to hear in Baton Rouge. She asked me if I wore contacts, because my eyes look absolutely gorgeous. I was dumbfounded. I thanked her for the compliment. She then said that I must hear that a lot. I said that I have gotten compliments before, but strangely, more in the past year than in a long time. At this point, I though I would be a complete idiot not to ask for her number. When she brought forth the check, I told her that I could not place her accent. She apparently thought I was assuming she was Lebonese, and when on to tell me that she was from Baton Rouge and that her mother had Spanish heritage. I clarified myself, and she said she was actually originally from Kenner (near New Orleans), which made more sense based on how she talked. I then said that I was originally from the New Orleans area. We talked about Ivan and how she was housing her parents who evacuated the city; while my parents planned to come to my house but chose to stay behind. Of course, I mustered up some courage and asked her for her number, and she gave it to me. As I left, she asked if I would be calling soon, and I said “Sure,” knowing that modern day dating protocol calls for a two-day wait. So I plan to call her tomorrow. My main concern is that I have no idea how old she is. I am assuming somewhere around twenty because she is likely in Baton Rouge for school while her family lives in Kenner. In any case, she deserves credit. Her compliment won something inside of me that once only existed in my imagination. |