saintadatha

I can remember, during the curious year that was 2001, sitting in a car with a girl i was kind of fooling around with at the time. We were parked outside of my flat in Archway, the location of such previous foolery-filled sessions... but this time, she wasn't coming in. I, being 21 and unversed in the ways of womankind (like I get you crazy folk now!), was unsure what I had done wrong. So we sat in silence for a moment, the gearstick between us like a thick, cheap, French mime-wall of silent separation.

Silence with company tends to fall into a couple of categories: there's nothing to say because you don't really know them (which is fine and natural); there's nothing to say because there's nothing to say at the moment, and your both fine with that (which is lovely); or there's nothing to say because there is a great vast wall of unsurmountable, self-manufactured incommunication lodged between you. This sucks. This is where I was. So we sat in silence. It was only, perhaps, thirty seconds of said silence, but it felt a hell of a lot longer.

We sat, and we sat, and we sat, and we sat...

How do I fill silences? I think. I like to think. I run through potential conversations, potential actions; moments of the past: things said or not said; things done or not done. Sometimes I just look at something and suffer a momentarily deep and disturbing realization that I know I am not permitted to mention, like: How did you get lipstick on the rear-view mirror (imagination provides solutions)? Why do pigeons aim at car windows? Why is their shit white? Why am I such a fool? Why do I always manouveur myself into the same (but different) situations? Why why why...? ad nauseam.

Lodged in a momentary one of these, said young lady (incidentally the first girl I'd ever been with who had non-facial piercings: she's responsible for more than she knows...) stared up at the roof of her car and sighed. It was one of those nasal sighs, rather than a full blown oral exhalation: it still surprises me that I can recall minutae like that, but not the model of her car, or what she was wearing...

"You know what, Addie?"
"No." Always a good answer, I find.
"You think too much; and you think too loud."
"Yeah?" A less satisfactory response, I feel, however.
"I can hear you from here..."

We never made out again. The next time I bumped into her I was on my way home, broken, from a two or three day party (partay, in fact). She looked stunning as ever; i looked worse for the wear; and her boyfriend looked like a gimp. Dick. But then she was of of the pretty-but-not-too-smart-variety. God was she hot...

I think too much and I think too loud. She was right, you know. And, well, I've come to realise that I have been doing it alot lately. I think myself into little traps; I make everything so unnecessarily complex. I am a writer, an analyst and a romantic, so deeply in my heart and my head, that I have to turn everything into a book. In fact, I turn everything into a number of books. And I think I've just gone and ballsed-up something that probably didn't need said ballsing. All because I think too fucking much; and too fucking loud. Which is an arse. It sucks when you realise that you haven't changed, and that you probably won't: deep, deep down.

Do you know what I'm talking about?

**** **** **** ****
(added early wednesday morning)

q1. head or heart?
q2. beard or no-beard?