Michael is no archangel Jan. 24, 1986
Michael the intellectual.
It is his dominating trait, broadcast in a thousand little
ways, although at the same time, he rebels against it, desperate to seem hip
and not a nerd.
Yet lately, he’s changed his style of dress, pull over
sweater, casual shoes, button down shirt, and dark dress jeans.
His bag is always at his side, of ragged green canvas, stuff
with the current book he is reading, a proper notebook, pens and an assortment
of other curiosities.
He is tall, lean with dark hair and sports a scraggily black
beard much like D.H. Lawrence, and though the styles eye glasses have changed
drastically over the last few years, Michael maintains old fashion blacked
framed glasses more popular in the 1950s than in any times since.
He changes his appearance slightly when he goes to his job
at the book store in New York – white shirt and tie – but even there, or
perhaps especially there, he retains his role as preacher of literature.
At home, his hair comes down. The floor is cluttered with
books and clothing. The walls stocked with book shelves filled with heavy
volumes covering subjects from Greek tragedy to punk rock heroes.
He owns three guitars, two of which work, one is electric,
on which he constructs his original tunes.
All this said, he avoids the obvious career choice. He is a
born teacher, something he resists, that rebellious part of his nature, and
while he likes associating with academic minds, he refuses to get trapped in
the system.
In college (most likely in high school as well), he tended
to be pedantic, talking over the heads of his fellow students (sometimes even
over the heads of his professors.) He always gravitated towards those students
seen as top of the class, whom he considered his peers.
Yet, he always stands out from the crowd, often hated by
them, as much as he seems to hate the common people, thinking very little of
them, not that he’s a snob so much as he despises the uncouth.
Sometimes, his mannerisms seem orchestrated as if something
he got out of his books, having little connection with what real people might
do or say, trying to act human and coming off artificial. When he feels hurt or
happy, he seemed stiff, not quite able to express himself the way ordinary
people might.
He almost never misuses a word, speaking in less formal
tones when he’s among people he considers friends, but at school or whenever he
has an audience, he is completely robotic, expressing himself with just a hint
of nervousness.
When it comes to talking about art, he is utterly blunt,
telling people exactly what he thinks regardless of the impact this might have
on their egos.
This is not out of meanness. He simply cares more about art
than he does about people.
Most of his life has been the struggle of an introvert
attempting to be an extrovert, and is robotic reaction comes apparently from
thinking out how he should act in advance, so it never comes off as natural.
I love the guy almost as much as I live Pauly, the friend I
grew up with, but I can’t always take his bluntness, especially when it is
aimed at me.
Comments
Post a Comment