How I know Sara is a long and separate story.
For this story, all you need to know is that we are old, old friends. That creative sparks fly when we are together. That Sara now lives in Glasgow instead of 45 minutes down the road.
September. London. Old friends reunited. We found ourselves walking through South Kensington smiling, laughing, giddy. The crowds on the sidewalk split to let us pass, as if exhibits of happiness were equal to pure madness.
On the Tube platform a gentlemen accused us of being drunk. I guess in a way we were: drunk with happiness to see each other after more than a year, drunk with ideas to share with each other, drunk with stories to tell, drunk with anticipation of the hours ahead.
Instead of adjusting our behavior, we felt spurred on to do more smiling, more laughing, to be more absurd. We only stopped short of public operatic singing in our gestures of joy. Just barely stopped short. And I think there may have been a little singing. (Just not in an operatic style.)
In John Lewis we made the small act of buying socks as fun as a childhood jaunt to the circus. We took ‘kilroy was here’ selfies with enormous sunglasses, with coffee cups, on the Tube… Every so often Sara had a hot flash and pulled off some clothes and fanned herself furiously with a Spanish fan.
In the Islington coffee shop we visited twice in one day, the staff not only remembered us, but recalled (in minute detail) what we had ordered the first time. This is when absurdity pays off—you become memorable. It doesn’t hurt to have a Spanish fan.So do yourself a favor. Get a little absurd with someone you know well. Feed the absurdness in yourself and spread it about. Belly laughs are good for everyone. So is happiness.
It’s easy to spread misery. But it’s just as easy to spread joy. Pass it on.More about Sara: author, animator, a sometime accordionist, artist, and—of course—an absurdist (who is far from amateur). Go snoop around her website!
The second and third photos were taken by Sara Pinto.