Eyes vs. Hair

My girlfriend has mentioned on numerous occasions that she thinks I like to look in the mirror. I suppose that’s true, and I’m trying to figure out it if is more a product of vanity or curiosity. I have to tell you: I like the color of my eyes. Or maybe I should say the colors of my eyes. Sometimes pale blue, sometimes greenish or “aquamarine” as someone once said, sometimes speckled and grayish. I hate the fact that Word’s spellcheck just changed my spelling of greyish to “grayish.” I hate gray with an A. And it has everything to do with appearance. So now Microsoft is telling me what color my eyes are.

The more I think about my eyes, the more I realize (real eyes) that maybe I like them because other people have told me that they like them. One of them was a former Seagal and former girlfriend of my uncle. I was about 11, and I didn’t take compliments well. I told her that it might be because my contacts have a very slight blueish tint. The tint really doesn’t change the color at all. My mom intervened and told me I should just say “Thanks” and take the compliment. She may have saved me from later dating disasters. Lesson number one: if someone compliments your appearance, don’t explain why you may actually be less attractive than you appear. There is no reason to point out that throbbing zit on your chin. It has been noticed or not. Not is better and still a possibility if you don’t point it out.

Once, I was talking to two friends. We were discussing the features we found attractive in other people, and one friend and I immediately said “eyes.” It seemed like a no-brainer. The third, however, said she was attracted to hair and didn’t think much about eyes. It seemed odd to me somehow. Aren’t the eyes the most important? Isn’t that where you can read someone best? But she pointed out that both of us who had said “eyes” had “beautiful eyes.” The third had rather squinty eyes and were a color I don’t think I actually ever saw. But she had long, thick hair.

Really, I should not like my eyes very much. They don’t work properly. Without my contacts or glasses, I cannot read a normal-sized book unless it is less than 5 inches from my face. In public, I would never recognize anyone I knew until they were less than 10 feet from me. This could lead to bitter misunderstandings and hurt feelings. But for some reason, I am not ashamed of this defect because other people can’t see my myopia. I suppose people who are blind from birth form their self-image in other ways. That could be good or bad, I suppose, depending on whether they are surrounded by assholes or by loving relatives.

Reflection on writing on reflection

I’ve had teachers say, “reflect on it in writing.” I’ve written similar things on papers my students turn in to me. Sometimes I think I know what it means, that somehow seeing my thoughts on paper—seeing my thoughts on paper (that’s not really what it is)—is a reflection. That I am somehow looking at myself as my thoughts appear on paper. But once they are on paper, they aren’t really my thoughts. They are words, which are like thoughts, but not perfectly.

I cannot really translate my thoughts well. They are, shall we say, “multimedia.” There are songs and layers and images and ticking noises and slideshows and fragmented videos and people that meld together and even dancing midgets and talking monkeys sometimes. Sometimes they leak and ooze and freeze and explode or rot. Sometimes they simply disappear. Sometimes they are in Spanish. No, these “thoughts” on paper are not really my thoughts. I am far more scattered. Asi es la vida.

And much of the time, this paper is not even paper. If I could feed leaves through my printer without totally fucking it up, I would put my thoughts on leaves, my non-thoughts on leaves or maybe rocks. Then my thoughts could literally blow away in the wind, or I could throw one in a lake and let it sink to the bottom, or perhaps even more violent things. But somehow I think real thoughts are more buoyant. They keep coming up—or at least I think they are coming up, surfacing—like the Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot or Dracula. They exist and they don’t and nobody can prove otherwise.

So maybe this is an attempt to prove my existence. This reflection proves my existence? It is far too organized, and I didn’t even get to select the font.