In the absence of my girlfriend and in my brand new apartment on my own, I have delved headlong into cabin fever. The lack of communication (no internet and, until recently, no phone) administers absurdity like a morphine drip to my conscious and I soon find myself conversing with a small statue of Stan Laurel (the statue: real, the conversation: not). Even in my most wacked-out phases, I realize that Stan doesn't talk much. Mostly, he smiles his innocent smile and We-I chat about plans for the apartment and life in general, how it's confusing and fun and sad and happy and much like your average prime time television series. We-I agree that mine is much like Prison Break and We-I agree that his is much like The West Wing. It's nice to have no contradictions. No one pointing out that I've never been arrested, much less imprisoned, thereby making it impossible to be an escaped convict. Or that he's a statue and, by law, unable to even vote, much less make a run for president.
To us, that's where we stand-him running for something, me running against.
Of course, that statement can be delved into in a deeper, more psychological manner by someone. But, not us. No sir. Not tonight. Tonight, I drink brandy. Stan won't drink. Can't drink. Mostly spills (Doesn't eat either. Spaghetti smeared across his face in a lazy attempt to absorb nutrients through ceramic skin. His lips never parting from that goofy smile.). But, he doesn't judge me for it. He grins, knowing that a little brandy will bring about a hundred guess-you-had-to-be-there stories that we've overheard along the way. And we laugh. And laugh. And laugh even harder when we realize how much funnier the stories would be if we had actually been there. I'll probably have some more brandy. Stan will grin, knowing that the brandy and the laughter will lead to a jig. A jig that we won't talk about. Won't critique. Won't say how not-a-jig it was. How jigs have more bounce in the feet, more bend in the knees. To us, it's a jig. To us, this whole thing is a jig. A silly exercise in getting by until inspiration knocks us free and we're dancing.
To us, that's where we stand-him running for something, me running against.
Of course, that statement can be delved into in a deeper, more psychological manner by someone. But, not us. No sir. Not tonight. Tonight, I drink brandy. Stan won't drink. Can't drink. Mostly spills (Doesn't eat either. Spaghetti smeared across his face in a lazy attempt to absorb nutrients through ceramic skin. His lips never parting from that goofy smile.). But, he doesn't judge me for it. He grins, knowing that a little brandy will bring about a hundred guess-you-had-to-be-there stories that we've overheard along the way. And we laugh. And laugh. And laugh even harder when we realize how much funnier the stories would be if we had actually been there. I'll probably have some more brandy. Stan will grin, knowing that the brandy and the laughter will lead to a jig. A jig that we won't talk about. Won't critique. Won't say how not-a-jig it was. How jigs have more bounce in the feet, more bend in the knees. To us, it's a jig. To us, this whole thing is a jig. A silly exercise in getting by until inspiration knocks us free and we're dancing.
RSS Feed