The bandwidths of human light

One of the things you come to notice about people through waiting on them is the nature of the frequency of their light as it falls within the natural bandwidth of humanity. In some people the light is free and clear, and these people are calm and easy to wait on, applying the right amount of thought into their dining experience. These are the salt of the earth, the bread that allows a waiter to keep his job without imploding or exploding from stress. In other people, the inner light vibrates not at the middle wavelengths of the band, but touches more frequently at the different ends of the spectrum. These are the people who are noticeable, and they stand out. The frustration they can create within themselves and intentionally bleed out colors memories of an evening. These are the people the waiter is obliged to remember fairly long after they have left, a memory not of right, just and easy, but of something wrong. They are people who cause one to look inward, and within, one finds a lesson.

Typically, they ask a lot of abrupt questions, in a manner out of place, out of tune with the tasks of the polite servant trying to help them. They appear as confused, aggressively so. They make it seem like it is the waiter’s fault that things are unclear to them in the shining and receiving bandwidths of light within, though the problem is of course within them and the habits they have chosen. And they are, ultimately, people who fault their own happiness, such that they will continually seek something than what they are given to have at the moment. These are people who tend to be materialistic. Quite often they are obviously wealthy, fancy, looking well-groomed. They are often people who fancy themselves as someone terribly important. They are not the laid back enjoyer kind of people, and one feels sorry for them, shaking a head as they depart unhappily and just as critically as they were when they came in, as if their lives were a matter of constant distinctions.

One would like to see such people have to wait on others, not out of punishing them through a lesson, but rather so that by waiting on people they would come to learn a lesson of the bandwidth of human light. One hopes ultimately that they would come to sense that sweet middle spot of the range of that light that is not only the necessary average and the mean, but the proper path to making an evening work that happiness might function. Or it would simply make their tendencies toward bitterness and disagreement more profound, and maybe not such a good experiment after all.

Perhaps this is what is meant by removing the beam in one’s eye, a correction in other words of the frequency within the bandwidth of the light within a person so that it is pure and unencumbered, strongly shining in the middle ranges of peace, joy and Corinthian love.

How’s the trout?

Idaho Rainbow Trout. It is cooked as it should be, on the grill for a hint of smokiness to the cleanliness of its flavors. Trout is trout, after all.

How’s the mussel soup?

As it should be, thickened with potato and just a touch of light cream, the mussels steamed mariniere-style.

Now what comes with the Proscuitto salad?

Baby arugula, hearts of palm, a balsamic vinaigrette.

A big man in a suit. Hedge fund type, with two women, one young and old. The women are often polite to make up for what complaining shits the men are. Maybe that politesse is close to the inner source of their beauty, one sometimes thinks.

Are you our waiter? What wine should we have?

They are the same kind of person, when you get them, when you’ve experienced them. They blend together, and leave the same sort of taste in your heart, and I could draw many pictures of such individuals and how they think themselves terribly clever and better than other people. They look for ways to put others on the defensive.

The guy looks skeptically, at the menu. What should he get? His face is not a happy one, offering an accusatory glance up at The Waiter. He wants to know what is the best. He must know. The wife is confused by him perpetually so that she too must ask questions, sympathetic to his range of bandwidth, otherwise she would melt, she thinks. Her femininity shines passively, and she seems to retain her health, resiliently, if stupidly.

Hooah, a lot of questions at this table, I say. Good for you, I add, as they seem taken aback I could ask my own questions and think for myself. I decant the wine, pour, head back to the bar where people are more happily occupied. Later on, the couple will leave down the stairs, their questions unresolved, about to mutter and glare, even after having had the bounty of the land, their fate, having been unloved as children.