Like all egotistical beings, I’ve come upon a revelation that I believe must be shared. Nothing proceeding will shatter the earth or enlighten the endimmed, nonetheless, I have you, and I intend to keep you.
When’s the last time you really looked at someone’s walk?
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Among the many analogies frothing to my surface, regarding brittle defenestration (window shattering) and a potentially inferior Microsoft product, I simply find windows to be unreliable in their offering of true insight. If you really want to know about soul, whether it’s through a window or a door or Motown or romantic anguish, you must seek honesty. The truth about honesty is that it doesn’t come easily, in fact, you have to kind of steal it.
Humans are at their best, or most honest, or perhaps least dishonest, when their defenses are down; when they’re honest and they don’t know it.
The truth doesn’t have to be something hidden behind a window only some Curious Tom would Peep through. Forget windows, forget peeping into soulful eyes, you’ll find the truth about somebody far easier watching them walk away. In actual fact it’s the walk that carries you that offers all those admirers the key to that which you lock away. This fact eureka’d me like Newton’s apple-to-the-head, tinted slightly by a mind far more focused on girls than science. Inspirationally speaking, the male of the species often finds his brilliance when in pursuit of the better of the species.
It was a sunny day back in university. I was sitting on the steps of the regally ornate main administration building of The University of Ottawa preparing an itinerary of solid procrastination in the face of impending final exams. It was atop this cloud I was perched when across the courtyard a siren-song swung my attention to an as yet faceless vixen walking out my life, crashing me back to earth before she’d had the chance to walk in and out of my life. In a crowd of bustling students she, and more importantly her walk, was suddenly all that I saw. Without a conscious thought I was on my feet and in pursuit.
The walk she used to prowl and parade across that courtyard spoke to me in one hundred universal languages. It was sultry and sophisticated. It was everything my hormonally-driven motivation needed, and said volumes in high-heeled, striding verse. I had to follow her.
It wasn’t her looks that snared me; though I could sense her pheremonal attractiveness, I had yet to see her face. It wasn’t her features or curves exactly either, though she did have sleek and slender frame, long legs with flawless lines that connected her knee-length skirt to her high-heeled shoes, and a sway to her hips that was like a gold watch swinging in front of my eyes.
Her body was her instrument and the walk was music. I lagged far enough behind to prey/pray and close enough to stalk. The last thing I wanted to do was upset this harmony that we shared. The second to last thing was to be mistaken for the type of pursuer that made a habit of this kind of observation.
I know very little of the nature of love. I would venture to say that I know a great deal less than the average male lovelorn learner, but I believe a major facet of love goes to the effect of how well you know your partner or ‘objet de desire’. Love is knowledge of another person, you know them inside and out, you know what they’re going to say before they say it, and what they need before they ask it. It’s knowledge born of a connection deeper than learning and observation. I can say with doubtless certainty, clouded only somewhat by that hazy male angst, that I knew this girl I was following. I was smitten by this girl whose face I had yet to see, knowing all I needed to know, and falling off my feet for what she did with hers.
The walk told me things about how our life together would unfold. I planned what I would say when our eyes finally met, I structured a list of the first five things I would compliment about her, and thought of how she would react to the truth of why I began pursuit. I thought of things I very rarely consider when in prowling mode. All of this was from her walk, from something in her sway that convinced me we were compatible.
Like any worthwhile prey, she was cunning. Her stride was long and quick, and eventually I fell behind. I lost her in a crowd soon after in front of a mall and she quickly exited my life. She was gone faster than she came. With only her walk she commanded me and seduced me. She demonstrated a part of her brave soul that I felt a brief but pressing need to investigate. I remember the experience vividly to this day and I never saw he face. To this day I remember that walk.
I found a park bench soon after our parting and sank into a wash of my pedestrianic epiphany. I began to watch the people hustling, moseying, walking, strutting, prancing, stomping, trotting, moping, strolling, sauntering, and ambling past me on that busy section of campus and got to know all of them a little bit through that looking glass to the soul that none of us think to hide. I swear that in those moments of inspired clarity I could have guessed the name, occupation, self-image, and present punctuality of everyone I observed. Had I been walking myself I would have been on air.
Walking presents a most often unconscious and therefore honest portrayal. We think about other things when we’re on our way across a parking lot, following our dogs, or approaching an important appointment. We walk fast when we’re anxious and tall when we’re proud. A person’s version of these walks is as unique as the pedestrians themselves, but the themes are always consistent. You can always tell when a strut is deliberate and whether it’s manifested by insecurity or egotism. You can always tell if someone’s nervous amble is triggered by something behind or something upcoming. The walk says it all; it’s a presentation we seem to rarely know we’re giving.
To the folks who don’t utilize the standard two-footed march: You’re in this as well. Don’t think just because you use a wheelchair, prosthetics, crutches or canes, you don’t present something as you make your way down the cobblestone. A defeated mope or a bulletproof strut are each displays that occur largely from the shoulders up. Anyone or anything capable of locomotion under their own power forgets they’re doing it at some point. They think of a point made at point A or what they’ll be when they reach point B. There is no locomoto-poker-face.
The next time you get a chance, watch the people around you at the mall or in the park. Do they float or bounce or drag? Are they at this location for the first time? Are they late for an interview? Have they just made a purchase they are uncertain about? Are they mulling over a retort they wished they’d said, or intend to say? Are they walking honest? Are those new shoes? Is that guy staring at me? See what you can learn. And try not to get into trouble.
Also feel free to test your own march, how are you pointed in travel between points? The secret to observing yourself is to allow yourself to forget to watch. Set the hourly alarm on your watch. That should give you the time to forget and will hopefully catch you in mid-strut and allow you to reflect on the moves that you convey during your conveyance. Are you Tony Monero or Quasimodo? And what exactly are you doing swaying that right arm?
In closing I would like to make a plea to all walks of life: Don’t let this truth I’ve unleashed affect the moving life-size signature you display, there are so very few things remaining that keep us individual. Treasure your saunter; strut like a peacock, prance like a deer, prowl like a lion, and glide like a cloud. There is always beauty in uniqueness.
As for the girl, the walk of my dreams: I didn’t like seeing you go, but I loved watching you walk away. I hope the life you eventually walked into had the good fortune of approaching you from the front.
Walk tall, all.
Patrick Hughes
1 comment:
Pat what was that?? Who is Tony Monero? Your getting cuffed.
S to the T
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