MOVING IN STEREO

CRUSH WITH EYELINER

"I know you.

I know you have seen her.

She's a sad tomato.

She's three miles of bad road.

Walking down the street,

Will I never meet her?

She's a real woman child.

Oh my kiss breath, turpentine

I am smitten."

"Crush with Eyeliner"

REM

This whole thing is not just an answer to an argument; it is a love story. If unrequited love is love at all, that is. It is about Mojo, discovering and using it, and whether The Force is more substantial than Mojo. Now the argument may seem a bit ridiculous right this minute. You see, you have to have the whole situation in context. You have to be in the right company and have an open mind enough to ponder the complexities of this universe, which some have very little understanding of.

Mojo and The Force are not fictional at all. They are called by those names because they are the most recent manifestations of ideas that have been in the minds of mankind for hundreds of thousands of years. Our lives past and present are all connected through what Jano Watts (late wife of Alan Watts) called the Net. In short, the Net compromises the strings of coincidence by which we are all connected. This story would happen once the sequence of coincidences was set into motion by that ridiculous argument.

Her name was Lori. From the time I first saw her until I could finally speak to her spans about five months. Like the movies on network television, this story has been edited for time and content mostly time. I left all of the sex and violence, removing as much of the mundane as possible. Real sex and violence happen far too seldom to be overlooked.

So, it was a Friday evening in late March, going back to the beginning. To welcome the Spring, I decided to take my friend Brian up on an offer to see the Braves on their last exhibition game before the start of their much anticipated season. After the game, we headed indoors. The evening's winter chill had still not entirely left the city. Soon we found ourselves at the Vortex, a local pub with roughly the same ambiance as a biker joint, B grade monster movie, and voodoo charm shop.

And there she was behind the bar. Her hair was dark, black, I thought, and wild. It hung down past her shoulders in a twisted mane. Her light complexion was accentuated by her sharp black eyebrows and deep, solemn eyes. From beneath her sleeveless tee-shirt, I could just make out the edges of a rather large tattoo. The place was crowded and alive with laughter and drink. After watching the Braves get their asses handed to them in the cold, it was a warm and inviting atmosphere. Try it for fellow introverts who have not been to a local bar. There you can be comfortable in your own space, and no one cares that you are there despite the noise and general activity of the place.

Brian and I drank and talked and drank some more, and I kept one curious eye on her. She had a demure smile and looked whip-smart when she moved about carrying her shoulders high as if modeling on a runway. After quite some time, I excused myself to the restroom and, upon my return, met her in the narrow hallway to said restroom. She was moving with purpose and staring straight ahead and making no gesture as if to allow me to pass. I forced myself not to blink as she blew past me. Hesitating, I watched her black hair flowing behind her in off-kilter ringlets. The flames on her wild-looking leather pants flickered in bright orange, yellow and red colors across her hips and down her slender thighs. Brian had seen her walk in that direction and laughed at me stammering when trying to describe her up close. I could not forget her, though, even with Brian's taunting, so I did not.