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East Coast MotionFest, '01, and time for dinner. I jump in with Hilby, Butterfly, Peter Gross, Brian from Cowguys, and a random whack job from Eugene, Oregon, who slips in, thinking he belongs with us, as he spent a season in Spain performing 3 Card Monte for short money. We don't mind; he's fun enough, and everyone has to eat.
We dine at a good veggie place, and regale each other with tales of woe and strife from the road. Peter trots out a nice lost luggage bit, Hilby recalls the time a toothless crone shellacked herself to him at a state fair, Eugene Man offers a "find the missing kid" interruption episode from a recent job, and Robert puts forth a vignette on losing wallet, plane ticket, sense of humor and bearings from his college tour days.
Walking back to the car, we light flammables and meander the two blocks in a peaceful way, lazily vying for attention. Candy cane lights call to us, and a well-lit barbershop storefront window inserts itself into our night.
Look inside, they're still open. We so want to be with each other and trade love with each other: agreement moves us as one, a bass line orchestrating dancer's motions. How can wherever we're going be more important than what might be right here?
Entranced, we approach the window, and wow. There is a barber performing a neat clip on a man sporting an afro the size of a rolling globe. We pause and, not unlike the twelve-year old gems we all continue to be, gawk unapologetically, hypnotized. Entranced. One-liners on hedge clippers and weed eaters beckon and tease us. Full on wonder overrides the impulses, we take in the marvel silently. The man in the chair is good-natured, obviously used to the attention. We create a welcome smile on his face. For a second.
Some moments take up all of our attention. We are swept up in event tides. We dally too long; you know the flavor. It is that moment when she looked at you and smiled, and you smiled back, uncomprehending, geekish, and realized only as she rode off on her red bike that that had been the moment she was ready for you to kiss her. This is what happens. We dumb-happily gaze through and past our moment. It isn't funny anymore. Half a dozen clowns press their psychic noses up against the mentalcandyshop window, no longer welcome.
We are a whimsy-riddled, inchoate six-armed demigod of destructive, tact-free mirth. Somewhere, the universe smiles. We are kids caught greedy, hands deep in the spontaneous life theater jar. We draw breath, preparing perhaps to exit hastily on tiptoe. Somewhere far away, a tumbleweed rolls.
This is the moment.
Robert steps forward, further into the storefront picture window that has become unwitting stage to this troupe of clown life inhalers. Not a trace of apology, he is at home. He reaches up to his own crown and gathers between thumb and forefinger the very forehead-kissing front of his well-made toupee. With practiced hand he flips it up. Like the open lid on the can of his mind it stands, a curtain rising on and framing the butterfly forever tattooed on his clean pristine pate.
Barber and patron howl. We are encircled in love. Life is once again good.
We dine at a good veggie place, and regale each other with tales of woe and strife from the road. Peter trots out a nice lost luggage bit, Hilby recalls the time a toothless crone shellacked herself to him at a state fair, Eugene Man offers a "find the missing kid" interruption episode from a recent job, and Robert puts forth a vignette on losing wallet, plane ticket, sense of humor and bearings from his college tour days.
Walking back to the car, we light flammables and meander the two blocks in a peaceful way, lazily vying for attention. Candy cane lights call to us, and a well-lit barbershop storefront window inserts itself into our night.
Look inside, they're still open. We so want to be with each other and trade love with each other: agreement moves us as one, a bass line orchestrating dancer's motions. How can wherever we're going be more important than what might be right here?
Entranced, we approach the window, and wow. There is a barber performing a neat clip on a man sporting an afro the size of a rolling globe. We pause and, not unlike the twelve-year old gems we all continue to be, gawk unapologetically, hypnotized. Entranced. One-liners on hedge clippers and weed eaters beckon and tease us. Full on wonder overrides the impulses, we take in the marvel silently. The man in the chair is good-natured, obviously used to the attention. We create a welcome smile on his face. For a second.
Some moments take up all of our attention. We are swept up in event tides. We dally too long; you know the flavor. It is that moment when she looked at you and smiled, and you smiled back, uncomprehending, geekish, and realized only as she rode off on her red bike that that had been the moment she was ready for you to kiss her. This is what happens. We dumb-happily gaze through and past our moment. It isn't funny anymore. Half a dozen clowns press their psychic noses up against the mentalcandyshop window, no longer welcome.
We are a whimsy-riddled, inchoate six-armed demigod of destructive, tact-free mirth. Somewhere, the universe smiles. We are kids caught greedy, hands deep in the spontaneous life theater jar. We draw breath, preparing perhaps to exit hastily on tiptoe. Somewhere far away, a tumbleweed rolls.
This is the moment.
Robert steps forward, further into the storefront picture window that has become unwitting stage to this troupe of clown life inhalers. Not a trace of apology, he is at home. He reaches up to his own crown and gathers between thumb and forefinger the very forehead-kissing front of his well-made toupee. With practiced hand he flips it up. Like the open lid on the can of his mind it stands, a curtain rising on and framing the butterfly forever tattooed on his clean pristine pate.
Barber and patron howl. We are encircled in love. Life is once again good.