## If you could look outside If you could look outside and make it be raining even if it’s not raining Two guys in a low-key competition to be the one who has the right to hold forth; conversation is a competitive sport in macho man-land; ugh; it’s tiresome. It’s all declarations and avowals. There’s really very little apparent listening. I should say there’s very little *non*-apparent listening; the listening there is, is a form of gathering ammo. It’s piling up snowballs by your fort, so you’ll be ready for the next salvo. It’s a constant competition for who can be the one who gets to say the most important thing, the ultimate thing, the most informed thing; it’s a power struggle. I guess guys enjoy playing that game. Conversation is the last place I want to play that game. I want a kitchen-like space with sunshine and wood floors and slightly dilapidated tables; I want the guys who want to be playing that game to be able to play that game here; as long as it doesn’t interfere with whatever other kinds of games and stories could be going on in here at the same time. That’s all. Is that so much to ask? I just want Cael’s kitchen; a place where I can look out the window and it can be raining or not raining, regardless of whether it’s raining or not. The windows are the TV and the open space, the blank space between and among the tables and chairs and people and counters and plants and weird art—that space is the music. The music is — Hey, where the fuck is my bagel? The music is a reality check sometimes. And frequently the practitioners of combative conversation are well aware of their real audience—not the person they’re “talking to”—the “talking to” is about as real as professional “wrestling”—the real audience is fools like me, sitting in the cafe, watching, listening, evaluating, eavesdropping, and taking note, involuntarily, whether we want to or not, of who’s winning. You are staring, admit it, and there’s a momentary pause in the action; the one who’s doing the least authentic listening takes that instant, intuitively, with a suppleness of motion, like an extended saccade, faster than mariano, to meet your eyes; yes, he has been aware of your attention; you thought you were anonymous, but your presence has been registered since you sat down over here; and, oddly enough, you don’t look away. Why pretend you’re not a part of this game?