19 February 2008; 6.18p, 43°F
Because Frank said he’d be my amphetamine, and because there isn’t yet a voice recorder to belch words into, and because Jordache is disappointed with our lack of postings, I’ve tapped into the collective consciousness from the goofy doorside seat of Boudhi’s room for a touch of philosophizing. The boys are all about, one in the doorway, two splayed out on the sofabed that never seems to sofa. They are talking nonsense about hot lather shaves, something that I haven’t bothered to train my ear on. Frank suddenly explodes off the couch, shouting.
“The opposite of a hot lather shave is wet and cold!” He is animated now, wrenched from the supine before he is ready, practically, and it takes him a moment to truly find his feet. “And it’s scraping and painful!” he says, sticking his finger into the air. He’s been turned on by the Universe to a conversation he’d only been halfheartedly attending, lazily tossing back replies in the tepid hope that something very much like this would happen, a word or an idea catching him off guard and thrusting him into the now.
Jordan, who stands behind my right shoulder in the doorway, considers for a long moment the figure that has just leapt to the ready directly opposite him . There is Frank, newly sprung to life, downright giddy at the prospect of a good, meaningless argument. And here, Jordan, another organ of the Universe, wielder of the remarkable power of attention. He could simply shut his mouth here, in the wake of the eruption, and let the ash settle, returning to the mutual silence, the absolute agreement, of Step One. Or he could accept Frank’s gift of overt eagerness, and indulge his counterpart, letting the Universe babble aloud to itself as it sometimes will. He looks out the window and then levels his gaze on Frank, whose eyes are like dinnerplates, he’s so excited.
“So it’s still a shave.”
“Nooooo!” Frank growls through clenched teeth. “No… Look, a hot lather shave is all nice and smooth, right? This…this hurts. Imagine, like, chains and spikes dragging against you, okay? That are cold.”
Boudhi laughs from under the blankets.
“Okay, I think I get it now,” Jordan says, tugging away the bowl, “the opposite of a hot lather shave is rusty chains carving up your face.”
“I didn’t say ‘rusty,’” Frank shoots back, taking the bong from Jordan, ” but that’s pretty much it, yeah.”
“Frank,” Jordan tosses back, “you’re an idiot. The opposite of a hot lather shave is not hot, it’s not lathered, and it’s not a shave.” Jordan’s mouth smokes as he speaks, slowly layering the room with a low ceiling of haze. “It’s nothing.”
“No, no, no, no!” Frank says, one hand keeping the bong aloft, the other clutching a purple lighter, punctuating points in the stony, yellow fog. “Don’t be so deconstructionist about this! You can’t break it down that way. A hot lather shave isn’t just three words, it’s a whole idea. Hot plus lather plus shave doesn’t just equal hot lather shave, it equals a uniquely soothing experience. It’s opposite would be a terrible experience. Cold and slimy, or crusty maybe, and whatever else sucks.”
“You’re an idiot,” Jordan says again. With that, he turns on his heels and leaves the room.
“Well you’re wrong,” Frank calls to his back. He puts the bong down and steps toward the door. “You really think you’re right about this?”
Jordan, if he’s heard him, remains silent.
“Fine,” Frank, continues, louder now, “I’m perfectly happy letting the conversation end there! I think I’ll take a win for that one!” He looks at the empty doorway. He looks down at his feet. He is standing. He looks around the room. He is the only one standing. He shuffles around for a moment, then sits and scratches his head with the lighter. He sees the bong. He lifts it to his knees and lights it.
Boudhi emerges from his cocoon with the first notes of the bubbling glassware.
“So the opposite of a hot lather shave is any stressful experience?” he asks, grinning.
This is called “taking up the mirror.”
~Touchstone
