Reconditioning the Recall


I should have said something else. When I was sitting there at the bar, looking at my friend and told her that there was a moment between us that I had recalled in my mind, I told her it was comforting. I probably should have said something else. There had to have been something else I could have said, but just didn't.

It was true. An image, a feeling did reoccur in my head after a previous moment took place. But that moment was mine and I let it loose, giving it words, and sharing the thought. When it was mine the cushion was softer. Shared, the feeling faded and becomes less intimate. Blown: the memory is less memorable. And not just mine.

So, what do I do? Keep it all in and share nothing? No. Maybe it's best to share things with people that don't know the other. Bring in an independent third party for feeling interpretation. It might mean something else. Or nothing at all. I'm clueless when it comes to this. Result: the only girl in my life is a four-year old, four legged, fur friend.



Growth process

The garage door was open to Rudy's, the the barber shop up the street from my house. This, my day off, seemed like a good day for a haircut.

Judging from haircuts I've been in Portland for sometime, close to a year. As you may or may not recall -- see A haircut buzzed if not -- I've paid for cuts before here. I've paid for several haircuts (3) and I'm not just saying that to make you think I'm not a deadbeat. My last haircut, however, was given to me by a friend, alcohol induced. Me first, then him, in my garage after a barroom discussion.

"Sean, shave my head," I get out as beer runs down my chin.

It was free, and left me feeling loads lighter, ready to become something different. A friend shaving your head when you are drunk is a completely different from visiting a shop. It's cleaner, feels like change is about to occur in your life, and satisfyingly so. You want to change, and are ready for new beginnings. It's a birth with experience to come.

I tell Lindsay, my clipper today, that, "I'm recovering from a shaved head incident." She smiles and goes to work.

What feels good about a haircut, when you're getting one, is the way a female touches, holds, and trims with gentleness. It helps if her smell is intoxicating, and smile sweet. A paid cut, a scalp sculpture, is the experience. You don't walk away wanting to change, ready to be reborn. The experience seeps into your scalp and leaves you changed.

"Some curls back there," I say to Lindsay.

"Yeah," she says with a that smile. "It's a funny growth process."

A few more snips and she was done. "That was nice," I say, referring to the time in the chair rather than the final outcome. My hair looks good; I feel good, it's as if the haircut cleaned up the inside of my head as well as the outside.

I've been here almost a year, and have had four haircuts. I'm different now, sure. From experiences. Because of haircuts.

Life: "It's a funny growth process," Lindsay voice re-peats in my head.

two lists to twelve

Too many know. Don't ask me what. The problem is too many know each other, of each other. This isn't going to work. It couldn't possibly. Unless...

Here's what to do:
1. Run.
2. Change name, facial hair.
3. Be somewhere where girl falls in love with you.
4. Make matters worse, by faking a feeling.
4. Become annoyed.
5. Frustrated.
6. Change mind a bunch.
7. Fall in love with others by looks alone.
8. Make a fool out of yourself in front of them.
9. Piss off the former.
10. Scare the latter.
11. Run back to where you came from.
12. Rest up for the next outing.

Feel free to follow these steps and re-peat if necessary. They'll start to get to know eachother if you don't move fast enough. There's no chance in capturing when you do. Stick around and rick lives. Better yet...

Sip your coffee. Smoke your cigarette. What ever it takes. With the live business: take care of it. Make sure you know where you are. Know who they are and don't get caught up in surreal surroundings. Not when you've had too much to drink. OK good. Now we're getting somewhere. This could be it...

1. Stay where you're at.
2. Let life continue.
3. Watch it carefully at first to prevent sillover.
4. Stir constantly to prevent sticky situations.
5. Breathe deepley, oxygen is best, marijuana substitute in cool climates, alone or with those most comfortable.
6. Think about it.
7. Act upon it.
8. Don't look back.
9. Say what you're thinking.
10. Fa-la-la-la
11. La
12. And be gone.

Good. We've got something here. Maybe not a code. Perhaps a cure. A curse? Shutch jor mouff.

And I'm out.

The devil's a liar

Heres me: I think I have to throw up. Theres a topless girl next to me. And when I say girl I don't mean 12 year old you sick fuck. She's more like 20. She doesn't make me ill. She's good looking. But I think: I'm ill. I run to the bathroom where I'm met by the devil. The smell in the bathroom alone is enough to set me off. Huhhhghh. Followed by other, less productive heaves. Here's the devil: God hates you. Me: Liar. My eyes are red, teary and my skinny, naked chest trembles. I'm not afraid of you, Devil, I think. And I'm not. My throat hurts. The devil has some power, I'm convinced. I'm ill, aren't I? And I am. My throat kills and I can't tell if it's from my short stints with smoking or from hacking up last nights beverages. Either way, the Devil, convinces me that neither could possibly be good from me. Except he places the blame on God. Liar, Devil, I tell him as I flush the toilet and watch him whirl counter-clockwise down the whole. Me, to myself in the mirror: What was I thinking?

There's a girl in my bed, and I'm both glad I wasn't thinking clearly (how else could she have gotten there), and glad I was thinking well enough (I didn't have sex with her). See, here's the deal. I knew her. It wasn't like I just met her at a party and clubbed her over the head and dragged her back to my cave to snuggle up next to her. I'd seen her at my house before. She had slept with my roommate Steve. I liked her, however, he had stopped talking to her. She liked me too, I think, she offered to talk me to the coast. Too bad I just flushed the devil, too bad I felt like I got the death blow.

Yeah, it's strange. But not that surprising. We went to the coast. After another encounter with the devil in the bathroom, I recovered from the death blow and we took off to the coast. Heidi came and kept us sane. We had a great time. It was perhaps my best day on the beach. We enjoyed each other's company. But it was too good to go one again. She's moving; she slept with my roommate. Shit. It'd never work out. Well, maybe. She texts: Are you busy? I'd love to borrow you and Heidi for a little while?...

Here's me to my roommate: Does it make you feel uncomfortable that I want to spend time with girl mentioned above? He says: Kind of. And that's all that really needs to be said. I feel bad for her. I liked spending time with here, but roommate was just going to make her uncomfortable. No, I was never going to sleep with her -- he had done that. We were never going to get married -- she was leaving. But Heidi and I could use some other company right about now. And that doesn't seem like it's going to happen with this one.

Girls: there coming into my life as quickly as they are leaving from it. Awaiting the next.