Head and Skin.
Two different words with two very distinctly different meanings.
"I've got you, under my skin" sings Frank Sinatra or Louis Prima (depending which version you prefer of the Cole Porter song - at the moment i'm more so into the Louis Prima and Keely Smith one)
"Man, that girl really got into my head." announces to me my friend from The South.
Skin and Head.
They can't both be talking about the same feeling, for Head and Skin are so very different.
The Skin is the largest organ of the integumentary system made up of multiple layers of ectodermal tissue, and guards the underlying muscles, bones, ligaments and internal organs. Thats the scientific definition. To me The Skin more sensitive to experiences than any other part inside, outside or around our bodies. It reacts to temperature, sounds, foods digested, drugs imbibed, bad poker bluffs, illness, the guy who just cut in front of your car in his Italian Scooter, sharp metal objects and cheap synthetic suit jackets. And, for Mr. Porter,it reacts to a girl's (or boy's to be more accurate to his tastes - not that there's anything wrong with that) ability to somehow get underneath it.
The head of an animal is the rostral part (from anatomical position) that usually comprises the brain, eyes, ears, nose, and mouth (all of which aid in various sensory functions, such as sight, hearing, smell, and taste). Despite all these wonderful tools at it's disposal, The Head actually misses alot more than The Skin. It hears only what it wants to hear, sees only what it is shown and works to prevent itself from inhaling odours it presupposes it will abhor. As for the brain, it takes up so much wasted real estate up in there. That thing spends most of it's time confused and lost between stints of ending euphoria and muted sleep and is essentially chasing it's own tail around, around and around. I'm not sure why this girl wanted to get inside The Southern Man's head, but nevertheless, she did.
Now you've got the background. You have the two lines that ran through my consciousness this morning and the way my lost/euphoric brain choose to set the table in preparation for analysis.
Which one is better? If i had to choose, would i want my life torn down from under the scar that crosses the knuckle of my left index finger, or would prefer it to happen from a girl perched inside the right hand base of my skull?
'Does it really matter?' and 'Why do i think a girl automatically has to destroy my life?' are probably better, more pertinent and somewhat more necessary questions, but i've got a tail to chase and as such am not interested in questions and answers that actually lead to constructive conclusions. Life is so much more interesting when lived on the borderline between drama and disaster and if crawling back and forth under that border fence like a Mexican people smuggler named El Coyote is the rocks in the sands of the hour-glass of The Days of Your Life, than you must be prepared to choose between the Skin-Girl and the Head-Girl. (How about that for an extraordinarily long sentence, littered with several metaphors, invented genre-labels and pop culture references?).
I have come to my decision. I have my choice.
I'm gonna go with the girl that's afflicting The Southerner's stability as the less fractious influence. The head surpresses. Often and in totality. We forget how bad we felt that day we fell off the stage in front of the entire school at assembly. You cease to think about that time you were fired from your job and replaced by a seeing-eye dog. My Mum never remembered the pain of labour each time her and the old man decided to conceive another one of my nine brothers and sisters. The degenerate gambler is not thinking of the past consecutive 12 races that his horse has failed to place, as he stands with conviction to bet his last dollars on horse in race number 13. And i always forget the messes that seem to spring forth every time i allow myself to get 'emotional' with some young lass. Based on these working examples, im sure i could force the Head-Girl away from her perch inside my skull and down somewhere deep into some corner of my mind, buried under some old, tattered overcoats and faded football scarves. I'm sure.
The Skin is harder. I gotta look at it everyday, whilst standing naked and alone under the shower. I'll watch as the soap rinses away to reveal that scar. I'll notice it as i look down beyond my hand and at the wine-knife when i'm opening a bottle of wine. It'll show when i'm picking my way from a C to a G on the guitar, when i turn the page on the Saul Bellow i'm reading and even when i'm tapping away at the keyboard, hacking out this blog. I wont be able to force a leave from under my skin and if she does depart, it will be totally at her own whim and freedom. I can't wait for that. I can't acquiescent that much control. It's too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Too trusting. Too optimistic. Too fantastic. Too Cole Porter.
So now i know: Next time i slither on my belly across some borderline, i'm looking for a girl to get inside my head and who is prepared to eventually be secreted away under piles of old, discarded winter gear.
