Thanks to The Naked Guy

I keep thinking of this naked guy I had a thing with last week. I wish I could see him again.

I was at a theatre festival, and I was strung out.

By strung out, I mean that I was doing theatre with heaps of people from dawn till the wee hours each morning.

I was feeding meatballs and Nanaimo bars at midnight to an increasingly resentful gut.

And I’d had no solitary time.  None.  I couldn’t breathe.

I found myself in the hallway outside my hotel room one morning at 5am.  My roommate was snoring and I was going insane for the need of some quiet.

I did a bit of yoga in the hallway. That felt good.

I thought I’d meditate for a few minutes, thought I’d try to relax for the first time in days.

I lay on my back in the hallway, palms facing up. I closed my eyes and took one breath.

Then I heard the  scream.

The door across the hall was open, and a naked man stood there, mouth wide open. He’d come out of his room to retrieve the newspaper outside his door.

My guess is he thought he’d have some privacy at 5am.

I screamed back.

He screamed again. This time he screamed, I’m sorry. Then he turned and fled back into his room.

I couldn’t meditate after that.  (Could you???)

But I’m meditating on it now.

Here’s what I’d like to say to the guy now:

Hey. I’m sorry about the other morning. I’ll bet we were both looking for a bit of quiet time. Quiet time is hard to find in a hotel, in a city that isn’t your own.

Come to think of it, quiet time is hard to find anywhere, anytime, even if you live by yourself.

I’d like to tell him that I think quiet time is worth screaming for, and I feel we’re kindred spirits.

In fact I wonder if we’re all naked, kindred spirits looking for a place to breathe.

Thanks to the naked guy, and thanks to you for the conversation,


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