where the hell was i? ·
26 June 04

He is in one his moods.

He is aware of everything said, but everyone gets the silent treatment. Even me. In some sense, this is another part of me talking, the part that likes to be social, the part that likes to be nice to everyone. The part of me which feels like burden to the rest of him. He is confused and lost, but aware. I am the part of him that tries to put things right. He had plans, to write about something nice. About someone called Tony.

Tony’s the local barber. Tony isn’t your local salon, where you make appointments, look at last month’s fashion magazines, natter about how your husband or wife is doing, the plans you have for your future and such. You won’t be guided into your chair like a salon, be waited upon, be offered a drink or be asked for your jacket. You won’t wait at a till after your haircut to pay for your cut.

That it left a photo image of that moment, and the timeline was one big multitude of photo images.

At Tony’s things are less superficial, less glamorous, less illusionary, and more real. Tony’s place of work is a converted front room of his house. It’s a small room, enough to accommodate two chairs for the customer to sit in (though, in all my years I have only seen him use one), he had the front windows and doors insulated with double glazing, he has a couple of sinks, a little cupboard where he keeps his money. His equipment is equally minimalist: one electric clipper with various teeth sizes, one metallic comb, one metallic hair brush, one bottle of water which has a nozzle that sprays, one small plastic container with rolled up cotton buds. The floor is some sort of plastic crap that you would have in your kitchen, it’s old, it’s some faded putrid yellow with a 70s pattern of bad taste. The seating chairs, the ones where the customer waits prior to moving up a level, and gracing his ass to the holy chair where upon your wish is granted based on your orders, are interesting. They all look the same; they are dull in colour, having probably not been cleaned in a long time. Their original colour, hidden under some sort of darkness. Nicotine, skin, ash, hair, they all probably exist in their somewhere. No doubt, new creatures undiscovered by man exist within those threads of fabric. The room is not very big; sitting in one of the waiting chairs puts you one to two feet within distance of the holy chair. It takes 4 standard steps to walk from the door to the holy chair. It’s not big.

At Tony’s, it’s first come, first server. Outside his shop he has an old sign, saying, “Tony’s” to indicate, that this shop is not only Tony’s, but once you enter, you are visiting Tony’s. It’s a clever marketing ploy no doubt, and you would expect some criminal mastermind, of the James Bond ilk to be behind such clever genius. In some ways, now I think about it, he could be a bond villain.

Tony is not a young man; he’s probably in his 50s, though I have never been able to judge age, as I find it irrelevant for others. But let’s say he is 50, he’s a little smaller than me in height, and he’s around 5ft 2” or perhaps a touch taller. He has a hedge of hair; circling half way around his head, from one ear to the other, everything else has disappeared – leaving some glazed, shiny egg like surface. If you saw his head from a birds eye view, you would think it was an egg, sitting in a grey nest left by it’s mother, while the mother bird tries to find more material with which to complete the nest. Tony’s head is an incomplete nest. Interesting. He has yellow teeth, perhaps from old age, bad food, smoking, and alcohol. I have never seen him smoke, I never smell smoke from him, but perhaps he quit decades ago. And his teeth are the wonderful result of decay. He hunches over a little, he scuttles around the floor of the shop with little movements, shifting here and there, looking and observing his customer’s had like some sort of mathematical equation that needs to be solved to the best of his ability. He is both examiner, and the student in one form. He will cut a strand of hair, look at it, and then decide whether or not to cut it with much thought. Perhaps it’s all a game, and he is really thinking, “They’ve never cottoned on to the fact that I am actually taking my time so they think they have their money’s worth”. I don’t know, I’ve never asked him.
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He, that is I, needed a haircut. It would be easier to refer to myself as I, as I have already done, as he is not interested in conversing. I am still him, and therefore am I. I digress. I needed a haircut. My hair is thick, and unmanageable. In the morning’s I wake up to the hair of the Bride of Frankenstein’s Monster. That is, hair that defies gravity, all science, and all logic. In some senses, I think I have so much static in my hair I could power a television set if I just plugged my head in hole designed to power television’s for people with thick, static-charged, unmanageable hair. When I wash it, and then towel dry, my curls form, making the hair straight again is a crying chore. Brushing my hair, it feels as though I am moving the brush through some thick, tough, spongy substance. I can’t compare it to anything, but, it’s hard work. And I do become tired.

I wanted a hair cut a long time ago; I just was too lazy to do anything about it. So, I put on my raggiest clothes (not too hard as I tend to care more about what I think of other people, than what other people think of me), put on my shoes, and decided on the leather jacket. The duffle coat would just pick up any hairs and swallow them, making itchy on my neck.

As I walked to Tony’s, a short, brisk five minute walk. I pondered on several things, including how many people would be there, and whether I would actually get my hair cut. Tony’s first come first server policy, and the fact he tends to take 40 centuries to cut hair, taking the greatest care – as though he was nurturing a child to take the path of good over evil, you need to get there pretty early. He opens at 8.30am, and I was walking out at 9.54am. Typically this means there would be no seats left, so you would need to stand up. Or lean against the wall. If you left, someone else would come and do what you didn’t want to do, and then you’d be one person further behind everyone else in Tony’s shop. It’s a bitter pill to swallow. Being first, or being among the top two is important, because it means you can laugh inside your head as the people following wait to get their haircut. Everyone is aware Tony takes his time, which is why they probably still come. And it’s 15 minute walk to the salon, and about double the price there. And with Tony being a barber, old and such, he only cuts men’s hair, and that of young lads. No women, not that any woman would probably want to have their hair cut by some yellow-toothed, balding old man – women prefer to be lavished upon with comfort and such. Superficial and fantasy is their domain. Primitive and down to Earth is man’s.

A pen provides no consistency; paper moves around, you are always trying to make things more comfortable.

I approached the shop with discourse, “bugger it you lazy arse, couldn’t wake up earlier?” Although, I had, in some respect prepared for the possible long drawn out wait. Tony does have material, much like a salon, for those who are waiting for their cut, to read. The material is not fashion magazines, but the sort of newspapers designed for the primitive alpha male, the lowest common denominator – tits and arse on the front pages, sports on the back. A typical “lad”. I am neither for nor against patheticism, as long as it doesn’t interfere or affect my own agenda in life, depravity can be your forte, and I need not know about it. In any case, not to be out done by Tony’s reasonably accurate assumption of what his “audience” would prefer to read (literature being out done by imagery, prose and language being denigrated to that of a reading audience that prefers “big words” and content written in such a way, children as young as eight would be able to understand), I took with me Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. This was part of my plan to read several titles at once. Or at least as many titles as often as possible.

As I viewed the newly installed PVC frame of the double glazing, I peered through the window as I took the few steps remaining to the door. To my fortune, I found only one person sitting in the holy chair of orders. “Thank the holy mother of heaven and hell, I get my haircut today!”

“Hey Tony!” “Hi!” Tony and I don’t know each other. I know of Tony, he has cut my hair over the years, we have had small talk, but we don’t know each other. I doubt if he even remembers me. Tony, being a one man barber, meets people day in, day out everyday, five days a week (he takes Wednesday off), cutting different hair, listening to the orders of “Trim”, “Short back and sides” “Shave it all off”. Everyone greets Tony in the same manner; Tony always gives the same response. It’s some unspoken, rule of friendliness with Tony. Everyone knows Tony, but Tony doesn’t know anyone. It’s an interesting fixture, but it works well, because it keeps things moving. No one thinks about why they’re greeting him, he’s like someone you know living next to you, you may not converse, but you don’t want to ruin someone else’s day, especially when all they’ve done is try to be nice and help you out. So, it is with the greeting – typical, repetitive, much like life in general.
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I sat down to read Heart of Darkness, as Tony’s small radio played in the background. It crackled and buzzed with interference, like when you have a mental breakdown, and everything becomes distorted, scrambled, and irritating. It talks to your spine, forcing it to tell your brain it wants to come and die. “I may be a spine, but I have feelings too! This fucking noise makes me want to tear out”. It eventually sorts itself out, but it’s typical of that radio – he’s had it for years. It either has sport, aiming for the alpha male audience once more, or some sort of Turkish or Greek discussion. I forgot to mention that Tony is of some Mediterranean descent – where exactly, I am unsure, but he has that look. He hangs a picture of himself, when he was younger. When he had hair. Yeah, it was a full, glossy head of hair. A chiselled, rustic, stubbly look. Compared to now, he seemed to have the same charm, but I think his looks died with the hair that left his head. He probably buried them together: “RIP my full head of hair, and my good looks and physique. You will be sorely missed, my marriage to old age was inevitable, and we were meant to be together. Take care, my loves!”

As I was reading, with the radio playing in the background, I heard a glimpse of Kylie’s new track. Some sort of “bandwagon” track wanting to “fit in with the current trends”. I don’t know if I find her attractive, or if I find her deplorable. It’s like watching someone’s mother trying to reinvent herself to seduce her kid’s friends:
“Mrs Minogue, are you trying to seduce me?”
“What’s that? You’ll have to speak a little louder boy!”
“I SAID MRS MINOGUE ARE YOU…ah fuck it woman. I HOPE YOUR BACK DOESNT BREAK OLD LADY! Jesus, how much of you is ass?! Christ, where the hell is your head woman? You just to have a body, now you’re just one big, gorgeous though it is, ass.”

the sort of newspapers designed for the primitive alpha male

“Sorry boy, but my hearing isn’t what it used to be. Please mind my Zimmer frame; it’s been so useful since I can’t carry my ass around without hurting my back anymore.”
“You’re just some crazy attention seeking ass, ain’t yer?”
“Eh? You’d like to see if my kitchen has any glass? I don’t do that anymore, you’ll need more KY to fit glass in there. But, I think I lost a few things in my ass – I can still hear the rattling of my best plates. I loved those plates”

I continued to read the introduction, I have no idea how complex the book was. I have wanted to read the book, based on what my literature teacher said all those years ago, but, the complexity and depth to which I was getting into was much greater than I expected. I was getting excited by this fact; I found some stimuli. Delicious.

Tony, meanwhile, was cutting his customer’s hair. Tony often likes to rant – and when he starts, it’s like a mouse trying to stop a steam roller – you just don’t try, because it ignores you, and all you can really do is agree, listen to the last of the words he has spoken (often the only coherent word), repeat the word and nod in agreement.

“Soisayterimandhesays Football”
“Football, yeah” followed by a nod of agreement
“Sosiotherpersonsaystoimhesays RACING”
“Ah, racing, yeah”, nods.
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It has a hilarious charm about it – his conversations are often incoherent on his part, but, you somehow, by some subconscious mathematical conversion, understand what he’s saying….eventually. This particular conversation involved two people arguing about what they wanted to watch on the television. One wanted to watch football, the other racing. After arguing about it for a while, one of them smashed the television. The other, in anger, picked up a broken piece of the television and stabbed the other. The other, bleeding out of his neck picked up a piece himself and stabbed the stabber. Now they were both fucked. One ended up bleeding in a field, the other bleeding in a minicab office asking to be taken to an ambulance. They both apparently survived, and regretted what happened. Tony takes as long as a haircut to complete a tale (anywhere between 30 – 45 minutes), but that’s Tony. He is a character, a definable and unique character.

He, that is the I that refuses to talk, was up next, and I placed the book in my coat, hung it up and sat at the holy chair for my opportunity to bark my orders. “Woof woof growl woof”. “Short back and sides, number two please.” And on we go; the art work begins. He wasn’t in that much of a mood to talk, but even in his mood, he listened to Tony talk about something, unable to remember what the hell it was, considering he picked up a few words here and there. In any case, he nodded, smiled, and said “yeah” often. It seemed to satisfy Tony. He isn’t much for small talk, and would be happy to talk about a statement, a topic he could explore. He found small talk to be the stable for unhappiness, and he had enough unhappiness in his life, without filling it with small talk. He associated such conversations with lying – small talk is a way to break the silence, to feel the need to acknowledge your own presence by having someone confirm things with you. “I exist, and by talking to me, even though you do not wish to, you acknowledge my existence. This makes me happier, and allows me to continue my day”.

when he starts, it’s like a mouse trying to stop a steam roller – you just don’t try

After the small talk ended, and as he continued to cut my hair, there was a serene calmness. I enjoy having my hair cut, especially by someone who knows what they’re doing. I think there is a certain pleasure to be had from having your hair stroked, with professionalism, with care, with interest. I sometimes feel like an animal, being stroked by its owner, for good behaviour, for not fidgeting or disappointing. It’s a nice feeling, having your own fingers through your hair – perhaps the scalp being closer to the brain, the sense of touch is greatly increased? I don’t know the science of it, but Christ, I remember going to a salon, and as this stunning dark haired, blue-eyed beauty, gently guided her fingers through my hair, like a gentle rake with out the aggression – it felt blissful. It doesn’t have the same effect with Tony; in fact, I think I would have problems if it did have the same effect.

The quiet allowed me to appreciate Tony’s art. It was good. That was until someone else came into the shop.

“Hey Tony! How are yer?”
“I’m alive!”
“Is that enough?”
“Well, I’m alive; I think that is important enough!”

Damn you Mister Customer, ruining my moment of calm, appreciation of an art form – now Tony will talk, and instead of not listening to his chatter, I will have to listen to it as he talks to me and looks in the mirror for acknowledgement. Mister Customer, you piss me off!

And so it was, a rant began, and as Tony conversed with the customer, who seemed to suddenly fade into the background, Tony ranted on about something, looking in the mirror, as I suspected, that I acknowledged what he said. “Yeah.” nods, smiling. While the customer that initiated the conversation went to his alpha male material – small talk blows, and that bastard sure was no expert. If you’re going to start small talk, learn its art. It’s easy, I can do it, but I choose not to, because it’s all bullshit. I am the part that tries to be honest, without giving in to the depression (the part he seems in love with); the part that likes to be social as I said, and thus, you don’t need small talk to be social. Being social sometimes means doing nothing. You’d be surprised how many people appreciate saying or listening to nothing. I was enjoying the sound of the scissors, not oiled, yet without rust, scissors. I say not oiled, not that you would, because as the scissors were opening and closing, they were squeaking – like on a basketball court room, with the sole of the shoe squeaking against the bland, polish of surface. Those scissors, opening and closing, the shape, they were like…some cartoon woman. Fat thighs at the top of the body, the two finger holes being the breasts perhaps, the tip of the scissors the feet – opening and closing; snapping loudly like the jaws of an alligator. The closer the sound got to my ears the more deafening it was. Pain? Pleasure? Who’s to say?
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The psychological effect of having my haircut is the feeling that all my burdens are being removed. That, there is enough burden to motivate, but not too much, as it is now, to not be able to cope, to be driven to the point of no return. I am aware, that this doesn’t actually happen. Though, I do feel very much lighter headed, and with hair as thick as mine, which is also quite heavy, but soft rather than abrasive, it’s a big load off my head.

Tony completed yet another reasonable haircut. He’s a good guy, he knows his trade, but his haircuts aren’t something that will dazzle you. They’re not meant to. You want to be dazzled, if you want your hair to be treated like silk, then (you vain soul) go somewhere where they pamper your arse like your money was gold and you are the king or queen of an Arab state. For the most part, the most part being, 98% which is probably considerably very high in ratings, it is a great simple hair cut.

You pay Tony your £5.50, and if you have six quid, you tend to just let him have it. He uses a clothes brush to wipe the back of your clothes, he’ll give you a towel to clean any hair you may see, where it shouldn’t be, and he’ll even smile while he’s doing this. It’s the small touches, his constant pleasantness; his incoherent, but charming conversations that make going to Tony’s an interesting experience.

I paid my dues, and, as with the welcome, it is almost a given that you tell Tony to have a good day. His response is often “All the best”. I was disappointed I hadn’t read more of Heart of Darkness; I reasoned with myself that I had a lot of the day remaining. “Shower, maybe eat, if you care, and then read. You might be able to read the entire book?” I was treating Saturday as if it was the only opportunity to read anything. Tomorrow was Sunday, but I always put myself under acceleration to get things done immediately, readying myself for the next opportunity – the opportunity that another side provides. Imagine that side of the mind, where your thoughts are travelling so fast, that everything is a complete blur, if you try to slow it down, it will drive you insane. If you wait, it will continue to be a blur, it will drive you insane, but less so. Imagine thinking like this for the majority of your life, let’s say, fifteen years.

He found small talk to be the stable for unhappiness, and he had enough unhappiness in his life

Sometimes, however, if you wait, and wait long enough, it may take seconds, minutes, days, hours, months or even years (I have waited years) you will have a moment of peace in your mind, it will not last long, but it will save you going over the edge completely. I don’t know how if it will always work, or how long before it stops working. For now it works, isn’t that the most important thing?

I got home, and set in front of my computer. Habit I guess. The computer is the contact with several things, including my mind in some sense. Could I write all this with a pen? A pen provides no consistency; paper moves around, you are always trying to make things more comfortable. A computer, a keyboard you are familiar with, a skill acquired and fluidly applied is more immediate. In any case, I would likely be typing it up again. I was preparing my casuals, the heating was already on, and so it was time to shower. I gathered my shaver, face wash and undressed myself. I tend to shower in meditation. I tend to take the shower head by the neck, and water my feet, like a gardener would water his plants while standing up. I needed this more than ever, as something is wrong with my left leg. I watched as the blood made the veins more prominent, the heat soothing the pain. My doctor claims it is asthma. You figure that one out.

Having soothed my foot, I keep the shower head held by its neck and sit in the tub, cross legged. It’s a sort of, to coin a phrase, half-lotus position. I run the shower head over my legs and thighs for a few minutes, this helps my blood flow. I then place the shower head back in its holder, and retain the half-lotus position. Letting the water run over me, I close my eyes and am able to achieve that moment whereby I can slow my thoughts down, and I can analyse. The thoughts are present, available. It’s like selecting a DVD. When DVDs were first released many things were promised, including multi-angle shots, “watch a movie from any camera you choose”. Of course it is now all just extra features and such, and you think, fine. Take your thoughts, pause them, walk around your paused thought, analyse, dissect, change the thought, mould it, and consider it. It is the only, accidental, form of meditation I have achieved. For this reason, I tend to spend up to two or three hours in a shower. Away from all the noise, distractions and such. It makes him more content, if not happier, and allows him some peace. It’s the only time he allows himself, where he is never disturbed.
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He was a little, caught up in his hatred perhaps, this was reflected when he opened his eyes. He saw several bottles. Shampoos, conditioners, facial scrubs, shower gel, and so on. What he saw before were the actual labels, upon opening his eyes, he changes his imagery, and placed labels which he felt would mean more to him. The shower gel, represented in a blue bottle, he labelled Anger – perhaps the darkness of the blue reminded him of a chaotic sea. The bottle of conditioner, a soft, creamy colour, he called Calm. Hatred was represented by one of the bottles of shampoo containing a dark, burgundy coloured liquid. The labels were visual, perhaps a side effect from “feeling” meditated, the ability to confront, or admit his greatest emotions at the time. It would account for his mood. The Calm being his ability not to say anything, while feeling at the same time Anger and Hatred in his head. Not shouting, just staying silent, and ignoring everything. Listening, but not hearing, and distracting himself continually. Not eating, not drinking, not sleeping, just absorbing it all for one climactic mental explosion.

Colours were now on his mind, his favourite colour happened to be blue. His room was blue, he chose it, because it, for his belief was, that it represented calmness, or would provide calmness within his mind. He wears blue, he even painted his phone blue, pained the desk blue. Blue was his colour. Blue joypads, blue this and that. Here, for some reason, it was represented as Anger. He reflected upon this thought, and considered other colours he had a dislike for. Perhaps the colour blue was a challenge, to see if it really would calm him down, in the face of turning something on its head. He imagined himself with someone he loved, holding that person, near a beach shore, perhaps in some sort of beach house. The shores were beating against the sand, the foam forming, and the sound crashing. It was chaotic, it was an angry shore, but it was not that it represented anger. The sea was angry, just as he was, but it was trying to calm down, just as he was. He was a sea, of sorts, perhaps being pulled too much by the gravity of others, being drawn in, but spending too much time beating his head about things that don’t need to be considered. Like the moon control the tides, his mind was the sea, the people the moon, the tide his anger, his emotion. Sadly, it is only during his shower that he realises this, and perhaps the residue of thought would remain for a little while longer. But over the days, the constant exposure to society would make him forget everything he learnt. The person he loved was perhaps a reflection of something he was lacking, or wanting. He wanted to communicate with her, physically, mentally, vocally. He saw her image.

His next thought, was that of his past. It was all very science-fiction, but he liked to indulge in this. He liked to think that things were not always as they are that we would continue to discover everything we have learnt his wrong, and that everything we learn later will prove this to be. He imagined himself as a repeated image over the years – that his past was one repeated image of him across a timeline. That it left a photo image of that moment, and the timeline was one big multitude of photo images. By turning back, and look back those images, he could continually go down the list of images back to his past. He would be able to carry a message across his past timeline, down the images to his younger self and teach him what he knows now. To what end? To change others, to help others, to put things right, to makes things better for others.

In doing so, he would keep to his existing timeline, by not deviating from all the devastation that was to come. His troubles and pains, he would warn himself for, to better prepare for, but he would not sacrifice this timeline, because of those he has found to grow and love to care for and not those he wishes to forget. This is obviously guilt and regret, and there is no shame in feeling guilty, regret, as long as it is sincere and not with pretension or aggression. He hated upsetting people, but was aware there was another him that revelled in it, and far too often it was overpowering him. Pinning him down, smashing his face in, beating his skull with a rock till he bled and bled. Till his eyes were covered in blood, his bones were broken, his body incapacitated – and then he took over. Sweating, exhausted from causing pain, he took over – walking into the darkness, to take control. Laughing chaotically, “I get to live only a few times, but I’ll promise that I will cause as much irreparable damage as I can. By others suffering, you suffer, because as far as they see, you are the cause of their pain.”

It takes 4 standard steps to walk from the door to the holy chair.

They all watched, they weren’t as strong as him, and so it was consensus to let him have his way. He only needed the pleasure of causing pain for a while. Most of the time. I would help him recover; help him understand, that he needs to fix what has been done wrong. That he needs to repair the damage, even though it is at the expense of losing something. This tormented him. It hurt him, and killed him so many times.

He finished the shower, and wrapped the towel around his waist. He looked in the mirror and so many faces all of which were him, all of which were not, including myself. Emotions represented by different people. He wasn’t completely insane, or a schizophrenic – he was able to analyse, to consider ideas, to interpret and such. Able to reason, something insane and schizophrenics can’t. At the same time, he was also deluding on several accounts. None of which I could go into at this moment, for his sanity. Tender as his mind was at this time, to discuss it after the event would require much tact and gentle persuasion. Something “professionals” seems to lack – you are just a subject, categorised and thrown into a box. Tell them what they want to hear, and their task is done. They are easily persuaded. Amateurs, prancing around like idiots – “Notice the piece of paper on the wall? That indicates I can save you, and tell you what you are really thinking.” Not so my friend, if you believe that, then you are as insane as I am, perhaps more so, because you exist under an illusionary pretence that you understand, when in fact, you interpret yourself to understand. You hear selections of what you want to hear, and repeat them to yourself as fact.

I finished shaving, I looked young again. I had been lazy over the past few days. I hadn’t shaved, always under the impression I would “do it soon”. This was an opportune time to shave and I did so. I took off perhaps a few years, and underneath existed another me. Another face. I went to my room, drying myself with the towel, flinching to the beats of Amon Tobin.

I started to talk to him, although perhaps I was a little strong. As he was dressing himself in his casual’s, we discussed how he was feeling, about whether or not I could continue to help him, if he didn’t want me to be this three-eyed frog. This illusionary image, that he conceived, I would welcome to be a part of him for good. He went into some sort of trance for a moment, as someone else was talking. I couldn’t pinpoint who, but, they were discussing something else. The voice said “me” and then “everybody”. I could see his mind was filled with various images of himself, and it was a question of acceptance, acceptance perhaps of “everybody” in his mind. He focused on this thought, repeating it several times, like a broken record. He couldn’t move the pin off the record, and each time he repeated it, he grew weaker.

“Everybody?” he repeated.
“Everybody?” he again repeated, with a heavy sigh.
“Everybody?” his eyes welling up, I unable to help him now. I no longer existed in that moment.

Suddenly he flinched. Looking around, as though for the first time ever, he was able to recognise everything, or that it was the first time he had seen this place. His eyes shifted, side to side, as though being watched, being observed. I am positive he considered this.

He observed the stand with the cds, books, DVDs. He seemed to slowly look around, moving his head left, right and then up and down. Looking at the corners. “This is my room, I’m sure of it”. It was of course, and I don’t know what was discussed or said during his trance, it was as though he was not permitted, or chose not to remember. His heart was racing all through, as though he had just come back from somewhere, emphasised when he said, “Really though, where the hell was I?” as if waking from a dream, that had just ended.