Intellectually drop dead gorgeous

Richard Brautigan

You can admire architecture and flowers and poetry without fucking them. Gorgeous is gorgeous; does that mean "doomed to be the object of sexual desire"? Perhaps i would like to touch the small indentation of your temples and look for the feeding pulse that makes that thought possible. Does this leave you disquieted and wondering what's between us? Perhaps, lost in thought, listening to you speak, i admire the way the skin passes over your collarbones - so smoothly i must touch it with my lips. What then?

Your strings of words surprise me, they're elegant as tendons. I can remember the way our spoken tangents and branches, references and interjections verbally fit like fingers interlocking. What is one without the other?

The first word of the title sets up a duality that's been played out for ages in drama poetry and sermon. The interpretations set up a connection that rankles - declaring gorgeous in a person implies desire to have. I never wanted to be had - i certainly wouldn't want to impose it on anyone else. If gorgeousness is a posession, the amount of it in the world decreases. In that way it's like love.

Anyone can strive to be IDDG. This is the beauty of intelligence that is so striking, others are nearly blinded to physical characteristics. But that is not all. Someone who respects him/her Self will have more than just an attitude, because they are not simply someone who blindly holds confidence in the Self. This is someone who is honest with others and themself, and doesn't lose any sleep at night over the decisions they made that day.

This person knows that they don't know everything. They do, however, make the best use of the knowledge that they hold. They know when to share their information and when to keep their tounge still. This person has beliefs or morals which give them a basic framework on which to place new information. The morals are important, but the person seeking to be IDDG knows better than to set everything in stone. An open mind and the realization that nothing stays the same keep the Self from being a rock at the bottom of the river. Instead, they recognize that life is a moving force, not stagnant, and they allow themselves to be carried on by the current of moving time to new experiences which bring new knowledge. The IDDG loves to learn.

The IDDG knows the Self. S/he is comfortable with the shell which they have been given to live life in. Problems and shortcomings have been accepted, however, the limits are continually stretched in an attempt to overcome them entirely. This person knows patience. This person loves themself, but is not vain. The Self is loved unconditionally, as one would love their dearest friend.

Being IDDG is not permanent. It is something to be constantly reaching for, as life is not static. We must always move ourselves if we even want to stay in the same alignment with everything that we know.

I don't think she knew I saw her. I did. She was sitting outside of the Econ 213 class on that bench that looks like it's about to fall over if you don't sit on it in just the right way. I guess she knows what that way is because she was sitting on it indian style. Her head was bent over a book. Something big and complicated looking. I was half hiding behind the soda machine, hoping to observe her for as long as possible.

She wore these perfect jeans. They weren't trendy, but they weren't out of style, they were her jeans. She wore some sort of red vintage shirt, I couldn't tell what it said. Probably something like "Elon Elementary Pee Wee Baseball Championship". She wore a black cardigan over that. Her long dark hair was pulled up and twisted into this messy bun held with a #2 pencil. She seemed engrossed in her book, but every now and then the sides of her mouth would curl up in a smile and she would turn a page. A strand of hair fell out and she pushed it back into the twist with an absent gesture.

If you saw this girl on the street, you probably wouldn't look twice. She would pass you while pushing up her thick rimmed glasses and you would pass her off as another indie rock wannabe. But she's not trying to be indie rock or grunge or geek or prep. She can't be put in a box like that. If you really looked at her, you would see that she's intellectually drop dead gorgeous. Her mind exudes such a beauty and presence that when she enters a room, you start to worry that she'll talk to you. You start to think of things you can say to her to make her laugh or consider you at least one step above a neanderthal.

It's like sitting beside a super model and all you can focus on is that big zit right on the end of your chin. The super model is nice, she likes you even, but you blow the whole conversation because you're focusing on the zit and not just being yourself.

She is charming and smart and beautiful and I am hiding behind the coke machine.

Doors begin to open on the hallway as it fills up with students. It's time to change classes. I have to walk by her. I step out into the vending machine light and walk forward. She raises her head a little and glances at me over her glasses. She smiles. It's such a secret smile that it startles me and I just pass her by. I count three steps and turn back to look at her. She is bent over her book again, but she is still smiling secretly to herself. Perhaps she is still smiling to me. Maybe she thinks I am intellectually drop dead gorgeous.