I’m not hot on the idea of being locked in a room with padded walls, but aside from that possible culmination of the crazy career path, the insane gig doesn’t sound like such a bad idea. It would definitely work for a hobby. This is not such a stretch, I mean… most people are at least a little bit crazy already.
You don’t believe me? The only way to see for sure is to have your actions taped for several hours without you knowing it. (If any governmental agencies are listening, this isn’t a suggestion. Big Brother baaaaaad.)
Most people look unbalanced when they are candidly rendered on film. Imagine if you could get the inner text, the thought processes with their little loop sequences, the weird spaces and blips, and those fun rudimentary observations. “Her nose looks like a caterpillar.” We’re all basically quantum, you know? That fuzzy, foamy stuff much like a telly on the blink. We churn out a lot of meaningful dialogue for the sake of others, but inside it’s a pretty baffling free-for-all.
I have been typing about half an hour and I’ve turned the light off and on half a dozen times. The amount of light isn’t quite right, it’s too bright, and then too dark. I open the blinds, turn off the lamp, come back to write. Turn on the lamp, sit down again. Type, fidget, then close the blinds. Write a bit, then go over, and raise the blinds all the way before turning off the lamp. Sit down. At some point the blinds get closed at the same time the lamp is off, and I throw the whole project over for a nap.
Have you ever really looked at a banana peel? The inside is like a map of some weird country of rivers. But that’s the peering, analytical brain. There’s the other brain that toys with the mushy thing, because it’s… mushy. One side smooth and nice, the other soft and increasingly slimy. I touch it, and touch it. It’s gotten damp and gluggy. Twenty minutes later, I’ve been watching a show on… prairie song-birds? My hand is covered with grunge de banana. Why am I touching it? It feels fairly unpleasant now, but I’m still in this tactile communion like a weird sort of fruit worshipper. This is what I’m saying.
The desire to touch is big for me. I think my tastes were early formed by faces looming over me in a crib, because I get the twitch to take hold of certain chins and yank. I wanna tweak it. I wanna go up and give it a subtle, little twist. The nice, firm chin is difficult to ignore.
When you are near a pane of glass, don’t you wanna splay your fingers and place your palm against the cool surface of it? Doesn’t that feel sort of necessary? I need to crunch down on things when I’m stressed out, so my diet is peppered with corn-flakes and cups of ice. Chewing ice can pretty reliably drive other people right off the edge. It has a fingernails-on-the-chalkboard quality to it.
And that always makes me feel better. Irritating others is kind of life-affirming. You can’t doubt your own impact in the world when you’re making the veins stand out purple in somebody’s neck. If I go turn off the light, I wonder if I can still see your billowing rage. Just stay there, and molest your banana peel. Once you’ve calmed down a bit, I have some hot and heavy plans for your chin.