Un-total recall pt.2

Time has come and I shod myself for battle. I won't find a deeper meaning if I try; I just have to spout until the fountain of vomit turns into a life affirming seed of acknowledgment of the violence and purposelessness of my former and present life. The markers I wishfully plant on the soil of this well trod moon are kicked over and rusty, despite the lack of gravity and moisture on these craters of the missing chunks of my brain, which I so willingly mined for their semi-precious contents during the gold rush years of the late nineties. These excavations were exacerbated by many blows to the head, some self inflicted and some gifted by others, but all well deserved, truth be told. There was no beating I could take that I could not give better to myself.
Being that this character that I played was so closed up in himself that he could only pretend to communicate with the outside, every conversation with others was really a monologue with himself. A quest to be a good guy was always trumped by self preservation and many secret shames that caused loathsome thoughts to be projected on others, after they were thoroughly tested on himself. This is not a fun thing to write about, nor to read, for him or others, and it is not evidently therapeutic. Eventually I hope that he can get it all out of his system and start focusing on something but navel gazing, but until then, he must spout into this void of a forum.

A story seems like a good place to start, so let us imagine a blue-grey sky of a curly photo with jagged borders, as if made by pinking shears. The writing on the back says something like Norfolk, VA, 1973. There is a woman with darkish pony-tale tied at the bottom of her neck that holds hair covering most of her forehead in a V. Narrow and horizontally wide dark framed oval glasses hide most of her eyes. One cannot tell if they are kind or dull or malignant eyes. Unremarkable pale skin contains thin lips and a nose that is stuck right in the usual place. A more dark than light flower pattern one piece mini-dress falls just at the crest of her decency, held to a slightly scandalous height above stick legs by a 8.5 month pregnant belly under flattish breasts. The photo girl of 19 or 22 is barefoot in sand that looks equally cold and hot. The horizon appears to belong to the Atlantic with distant moody clouds, but could as easily be Lake Superior on a particularly overcast early September evening. The angles of one or three uniform little cottages pike up to the left distance behind the puzzling young lady. She does not smile or frown. She is just not looking at anything, and certainly not the camera. What a mistake, her blankness seems to project, and one wonders if this lady should have done the smart thing 8 months before, and kept her legs shut, or saw a discrete doctor, or refused the cheap diamond chip ring that does not show up in the photo.