I actually just saw this--the way livejournal is set up, it didn't send me a notification that you'd replied.
As to knowing you: no. At least that's not what I think I meant. I don't think [re]cognition and knowing carry the same weight. A girl four tables down from me just answered her cell phone, cutting off a Kelly Clarkson ringtone. Her fingernails are long and pink; she's wearing sunglasses big enough to interrupt the line of her cheekbones. I recognize her. I recognize her because I spend my evenings waiting on people with her Razr, her leggings, her shoes.
She fits into my system, because it's the only way I can process the world without running into a constant overwhelming stream of individual humanity. If I truly had to see each person as unique, it would drive me insane. But I don't know her at all. She might be a brilliant physicist. I will probably never see her again. I will probably never know.
So knowing, I think, is removing someone from that blur of faces and discovering things about them that don't fit into the mold of what you assume at first glance.
And yes, we've met. You've bought coffee. And in my inability to breach the awkwardness of feeling like a stalker, I didn't say anything. We exchanged one conversation about the morality of taking a few pennies from the communal penny jar. I don't know whether "meeting" actually informed my impression of you or whether it just gave me a visual.
I'm glad you say things I can hear. Because as much as words can only offer approximation--this is like that, but even more closely like that--they're still the medium most people use to communicate. They're the medium I use to communicate. Or try to use, at least. Which, of course, is not to say that they will ever be infallible or even reliable.
As to knowing you: no. At least that's not what I think I meant. I don't think [re]cognition and knowing carry the same weight. A girl four tables down from me just answered her cell phone, cutting off a Kelly Clarkson ringtone. Her fingernails are long and pink; she's wearing sunglasses big enough to interrupt the line of her cheekbones. I recognize her. I recognize her because I spend my evenings waiting on people with her Razr, her leggings, her shoes.
She fits into my system, because it's the only way I can process the world without running into a constant overwhelming stream of individual humanity. If I truly had to see each person as unique, it would drive me insane. But I don't know her at all. She might be a brilliant physicist. I will probably never see her again. I will probably never know.
So knowing, I think, is removing someone from that blur of faces and discovering things about them that don't fit into the mold of what you assume at first glance.
And yes, we've met. You've bought coffee. And in my inability to breach the awkwardness of feeling like a stalker, I didn't say anything. We exchanged one conversation about the morality of taking a few pennies from the communal penny jar. I don't know whether "meeting" actually informed my impression of you or whether it just gave me a visual.
I'm glad you say things I can hear. Because as much as words can only offer approximation--this is like that, but even more closely like that--they're still the medium most people use to communicate. They're the medium I use to communicate. Or try to use, at least. Which, of course, is not to say that they will ever be infallible or even reliable.
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