I'm
not sure whether everyone has these mad impulses like I do.
When I was in primary school at BFPS in Adelaide we had a main road out the front of our school, and so every day after school I'd have to cross the road to get home. In year six we were trained as 'crossing guards' and we would have to stand two on each side of the road with a rope across the crossing and when the light went green we'd pull the rope back across and let everyone pass. After school the crossing was always PACKED for twenty minutes or so – maybe thirty or forty people (kids and adults) on the school-side of the street waiting to go home. I used to ride my bike. I used to wait out on the side of the crossing with my bike, along with all the other older kids who rode home. And I used to think:
“What if I pushed my bike out into the traffic?”
Sometimes when I'm in important situations with people I don't know very well who hold major decision-making power over my life – job interviews, meeting friends-of-friends, some sort of reviewer-interview (that one is made up I think... I don't know, I have a particular image of this one in my head, hopefully it will become clear) – I tune out to what the other person is saying. I have trouble maintaining concentration at the best of times, and often catch my mind wandering in the middle of a conversation in which I am having to do a lot of listening. Sometimes I think people can see it in my eyes. I'm sure they can, but no one ever says anything. Some of the time, when the window to my soul gets cloudy, this is because it is being spoken to by the most reckless part of my brain, and that deranged corner of me is urging, begging, pleading with the screaming laughter of an imagined possibility.
“Kiss them.”
Eugh. Sickness, that's what these thoughts feel like. When I catch them like butterflies in a net, I always reel back with horror, but also chuckle a little inside for a second, remembering that part of myself that still wants to start the fire that burns down the city. Self-destructive. What would the point of leaning in with eyes half-closed to kiss a bank manager accomplish? Absolutely nothing. I'd probably get thrown out of the bank, and maybe have to pay some sort of Kissing Fee.
Today while I was sitting next to the pool at our hotel and reading my book – 'Naked Lunch' by William S Burroughs who shares my birthday, and whose apparently seminal, beat-masterpiece is causing me no end of grief. My attention was failing, but I didn't want to flip ahead and see how long the current chapter had to go, because that would just be shamelessly displaying my urge to finish the book like a chore. I should be enjoying it as an activity in and of itself. I am glad that I am able to read books. I like reading. I like that I bought this book. I am happy with myself. I am happy. I am a good person.
“Throw it in the water”
FUCK OFF! FUCK! FUCK! NO!! PLEASE! I DON'T WANT TO THROW IT IN THE WATER. I had to stop. I let out a quiet sob, caught myself, and went back to peacefully reading. No one saw.
I don't know what these thoughts mean, if anything. Anything? Probably not. They are just brief flashes of madness that should not be indulged or pursued, and to be honest, should probably not be given any more thought than absolutely necessary. Writing some six-hundred words about some perverted desires to act like an insane person is probably not a good way of dealing with those perverted desires... at least I haven't tried to kiss anyone though.
Peace, Taco.
When I was in primary school at BFPS in Adelaide we had a main road out the front of our school, and so every day after school I'd have to cross the road to get home. In year six we were trained as 'crossing guards' and we would have to stand two on each side of the road with a rope across the crossing and when the light went green we'd pull the rope back across and let everyone pass. After school the crossing was always PACKED for twenty minutes or so – maybe thirty or forty people (kids and adults) on the school-side of the street waiting to go home. I used to ride my bike. I used to wait out on the side of the crossing with my bike, along with all the other older kids who rode home. And I used to think:
“What if I pushed my bike out into the traffic?”
Sometimes when I'm in important situations with people I don't know very well who hold major decision-making power over my life – job interviews, meeting friends-of-friends, some sort of reviewer-interview (that one is made up I think... I don't know, I have a particular image of this one in my head, hopefully it will become clear) – I tune out to what the other person is saying. I have trouble maintaining concentration at the best of times, and often catch my mind wandering in the middle of a conversation in which I am having to do a lot of listening. Sometimes I think people can see it in my eyes. I'm sure they can, but no one ever says anything. Some of the time, when the window to my soul gets cloudy, this is because it is being spoken to by the most reckless part of my brain, and that deranged corner of me is urging, begging, pleading with the screaming laughter of an imagined possibility.
“Kiss them.”
Eugh. Sickness, that's what these thoughts feel like. When I catch them like butterflies in a net, I always reel back with horror, but also chuckle a little inside for a second, remembering that part of myself that still wants to start the fire that burns down the city. Self-destructive. What would the point of leaning in with eyes half-closed to kiss a bank manager accomplish? Absolutely nothing. I'd probably get thrown out of the bank, and maybe have to pay some sort of Kissing Fee.
Today while I was sitting next to the pool at our hotel and reading my book – 'Naked Lunch' by William S Burroughs who shares my birthday, and whose apparently seminal, beat-masterpiece is causing me no end of grief. My attention was failing, but I didn't want to flip ahead and see how long the current chapter had to go, because that would just be shamelessly displaying my urge to finish the book like a chore. I should be enjoying it as an activity in and of itself. I am glad that I am able to read books. I like reading. I like that I bought this book. I am happy with myself. I am happy. I am a good person.
“Throw it in the water”
FUCK OFF! FUCK! FUCK! NO!! PLEASE! I DON'T WANT TO THROW IT IN THE WATER. I had to stop. I let out a quiet sob, caught myself, and went back to peacefully reading. No one saw.
I don't know what these thoughts mean, if anything. Anything? Probably not. They are just brief flashes of madness that should not be indulged or pursued, and to be honest, should probably not be given any more thought than absolutely necessary. Writing some six-hundred words about some perverted desires to act like an insane person is probably not a good way of dealing with those perverted desires... at least I haven't tried to kiss anyone though.
Peace, Taco.
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