You: “What should I blog about?”
Neil: “My incompetence. Your addiction. Your joy at being a person. And… damn, I don’t remember the fourth one. Don’t ask me to repeat myself… Do you ever stare at an obkect and wonder how to manoeuvre your eyes to stare at what’s behind the object?”
You: *laughs* “No,Neil.”
Neil: “No? You don’t. Aww…”
You: “Say something else.”
Neil: “What? What Paul Mcartney was thinking in that picture… if you could roll upside down, why would you walk? If you existed in another reality, would you be yourself? Why the brain interprets weird shit coming out of your ass as real sloppy gooey…. NO! Wait! You know the brain, the arse, the whatever you call it… why the pip seeds, the poppies, why they… no… this is so hard… I was doing a shit today… well it wasn’t really a shit. It was like a waterfall. A waterfall shit. Anyway, I was on the toilet…. Ah, damn, I need a song. A song floats with my memory. Start wearrrring purrrple. Ok, I was on the toilet right, and–I love that song!!—every you every me—I was on the TOILET! I was on the toilet… you know the bread we make is all full of those seedy pippy things and the body can’t digest them. They pass through the body, don’t get broken up. Pips don’t. They just end up where they belong. So if the body can’t destroy them. What CAN destroy them?”
Neil: “I need to smoke some more.”
You: “Can I publish that?”
Neil: “Yeah.. wow… that was ME. Wow. Jesus, you type pretty fast. That’s insane! I interpreted your face…. you pulled a face. You pulled a face, and I understood what it meant. How did I get that!”
You hope readers enjoyed that sneak peak into Neil’s mind. The funny thing is, he frequently sounds like that even when he isn’t stoned.
Aaaanyway, Christmas is around the corner, and this family doesn’t do gifts. Fine by you. Makes life simple. You spent last weekend laying the floors with Angus in Jane and Deaclan’s new house, then you and the family helped to move them into the new gaff. Christmas at Jane’s house, and you have been commissioned early to bake for the occasion. A compliment of the highest order. More talk of Angus’ desire to “hire” you. That is, pay Douglas and Marlene to borrow you for the day. Hmmm… fine by you. “Will work for _____.” Take your pick.
In other news, you started psychoanalysis last week. Seemed foolish to live with an analyst and not try to take advantage of the service. So you plugged out more hours in exchange for what was supposed to be an hour once a week for ten weeks. So far, Marlene has insisted on meeting with you twice a week. Guess you really needed analysis… Coming out of the sessions makes you feel like you are suffocating in a dark rain cloud. She makes you a homeopathy tonic and tells you to find a quiet space for an hour, where the Powers That Be ring you out like a dirty wash-rag and it’s all you can do not to choke to death on your own tears and snot. *Sighs* All the demons and skeletons come around the chase you for a bit, then you pull your shit together, slip into your over-worn travel pants, five pieces of second-hang clothing, and go outside to chop timber and build stuff, where you can vent your bad energy. Not a bad deal.
Oh, and WHOOPSIE. The box of dark blonde hair dye went awry. Your hair came out darker than dark. Walnut colored. A color not even closely resembled by the demos on the box. You jumped back into the shower and tried to scrub out as much as possible, but it’s mostly there for good. You scarcely recognize yourself in the mirror, which you suppose is what you’ve been trying to accomplish over the last couple of months. You’re not sure if it suits you. Something severe about it. Too dark. Unnaturally dark. Then again. Who are you trying to impress?