Her scent, gently floral and both delicately and overwhelmingly feminine, left an undeniable mark on his usually unwavering psyche. It could be found on occasion, softly perfuming in his expensive sheets or embedded under his nails after a particularly extended evening of dear tenderness they shared, but today, as a constant reminder of her sweet dewy embrace, it had found it’s way into the pores of his very being. It clouded his vision and without hesitation it distorted reality as it engulfed him entirely.
It does so as he unloads phallic vegetation of green and orange and purple onto the black vinyl domestic belt. Like the red eyed paranoia of the smoke tinged teen who passed before him, he had hoped that the plain but pretty clerk wouldn’t catch notice of his intoxication, but then again, he too was too high to care.
This post was a god-awful brainwashed trashy mess, infected with the teachings of an alternative health understanding of the root causes of neurologically atypicality. It has been censored to prevent further shame on my behalf and to protect you from drawing similar conclusions on matters for which you have no right to form judgements. I have luckily lived and learned. Mainly through being diagnosed with the original subject of this post. Thank you karma for showing me the error if my ways.
The farmers market more than lived up to it’s expectation as a green, liberal arts, alternative safe haven, in the inner suburban grey, renowned for it’s shopping centre lifestyle and polyester-clad teen mothers. Smug with hand picked organic pride, I snacked on exotic carrots of purple and green and white, heirloom tomatoes, radishes and a medley of fancy ruffled greens dressed liberally in apple cider vinegar. A desert of the purest organic chocolate and a slice of lime in a handmade tumbler filled with the delicate effervescence of a home brewed ginger ale topped off the sun bathed afternoon perfectly.
‘If only I had nice someone to share this terrific abundance with,’ I thought, drunk with satisfaction, I was… actually drunk. I realised that it was an odd kind of, heart racingly, whirlwind of energy, misplacing steps and thinking far too quickly, kind of drunk. And I didn’t like it at all. I was loosing control like that time I ate a bag of dates and told my house mate exactly what I really thought of everything, all at once.
Palpitations, I was having palpitations! My heart was going a-thump-thump a bump-bump through my chest like it would after climbing a hill on bike, but I hadn’t left the kitchen. I was to find out that this was because I was a special kind of person. I had a sensitive new age sensitivity to salicylates. I knew that gluten could make me stoned via morphine like proteins locking into overactive opiate receptors in my special brain, but salicylates making me drunk was new.
I pondered about how I was able to become drunk and stoned off unrestricted chemicals available to those of all ages. What if everyone was like this? Constantly effected by the chemicals they ingest, and it dawned on me that they probably were. Only most people don’t know it was food and just get labeled with a behavioral disorder. The hyped up, go go go, not thinking straight, can’t focus, silly drunk feeling I’m experiencing could be ADHD. When I’m out of it, removed from consciousness, staring at walls, can’t relate to others, focusing on infinity, stoned, like I get while eating bread, that’s not far off autism. Maybe I had just had a first hand account of the link between mood and diet*.
Armed with this knowledge of how everyone can improve their lives through highly restrictive dieting, I was now going to be the most annoying friend ever.
*Another note from 2017: Yeeeaaah… It was actually ADHD making me revved up and the stoned feeling is an offshoot of that diagnosis called inattentive ADHD. Diagnosed with combined type now so I’ve stopped being so concerned about food chemicals warping my perceptions. I was susceptible to these changes in perception, felt that there were triggers and was desperate for answers. Where no doctors or teachers ever picked me for having ADHD, and largely dismissed my concerns, the alternative crowd was all too happy to acknowledge that something was wrong. This was hugely validating and it seemed that they had far more answers to my questions than anyone else at the time. Unfortunately they were mostly snake oil and vitamin sellers. The whole ordeal wasted years of my life and lead me down a lot of dimly lit misdirections before I ending up back on the right track with an official diagnosis. Believing that alternative health is a crock seems like common sense but when you’ve been living with something invisible your entire life and no one can tell you what it is, the promise of answers starts looking attractive no matter where they come from. The realisation that alternative health is for the most part bullshit when it’s also the only available ear to your problems is a hurdle to get past. Guess it’s a lot like religion in some regards. It’s something that many a chronic illness/neuro-atypical person has to face. I’m hugely grateful for new found understandings and quietly hopeful for the future.
There is a interesting paper that states with analytical evidence, that popular modern musical scales are based on the divisions between the natural frequency shifts in human voice during conversational speech. This finding, it’s stated, is the reason why we relate to music so readily. It’s because, by simply putting notches in it at varying intervals and wrapping it in string, we managed to teach a piece of wood to speak with the emotional clarity of a human.
The neighbour’s cat, who only occasionally sparks inspiration for reverse engineering, was in the house, again, as per usual. If it’s voice could be analysed in much the same way as a human’s in the aforementioned research, it could be possible to take this information, these gaps in relative tonal frequency of speech, and create a scale to match a feline’s natural communicative response. A spark, a light bulb moment, a feline’s scale, capable of manipulating the tender black emotions of precious pretty kitties.
Excited with the findings and rather chuffed in the idea of making music which would resonate on a personal level with dear emotionally stunted Romeo the hard work was put in and the project was put into action. Until it was realised that when Romeo spoke, he was actually trying to mimic humans. Cats don’t really talk much in the wild and usually learn how to meow with their best human accent simply because it gets a human’s attention. Cats generally, much like the rest of us, like getting what they want and are willing to put on a funny voice to make it happen.
All the work done, all the hours wasted. It barely even resonates with Australian cats named Romeo who get about Brunswick a little too freely, but the horrible horrible racket created was still a breakthrough and surely worthy of a celebratory cuddle.
While I can relate to the suburbs more than a beach town any day, the nightly telling of the ram-shackled adventures of Ramsay Street is akin to a bad joke. Maybe, a terrible joke. Predictable plots, bad acting, cheesy music, silly flash backs and Kennedy’s musical interludes just aren’t up there with the quality we’ve all come to expect via HBO via USA via ADSL.
It just keeps going, day after day, year after year, English tourist after English tourist, and the cast and crew, the ones of which I’ve talked to, can’t stand it either. They’re embarrassed to be working on such menial nonsense while they’re waiting for their careers to actually kick off. But I for one find it pleasing and reassuring, perhaps uplifting too, to be greeted by Toady’s hawiian shirts all these years later, like nothing has ever changed.
The thing about good jokes is that most everyone has their own opinion on what makes the best joke. Does it contain the appropriate amount of pun, is it clever, is it witty, is it dry, is it snide or uplifting? Does it start with a chicken and end in ‘Yo Mumma”? Steven Fry went over the topic once, it seems that Christmas Crackers always contain bad jokes because they unify the family, and what a family needs most at Christmas is unity. While a joke seen as good probably only resonates with a certain spectrum of the family unit, a bad joke allows a universal groan to be shared with glee.
Besides, the idea of a universal good is much less feasible than a universal bad. Dante can paint a feasible representation of what we imagine hell might be like because we all have a pretty universal idea of what misery is. Being whipped, burned, violated and vomited on, without no prior consent, is fairly university seen as a bad time, but listening to harps while dressing in white on a cloud forever isn’t everyone’s idea of perfect uplifting beauty.
It’s a bad joke, in the way that it unites. It unifies families and even plays down it’s own inelegance, just so we can feel better about our own capabilities for intelligent thought. It’s like that time your dad let you win at chess so you’d feel good about yourself and maybe even get good at it eventually. It shows you where it’s going with far less subtlety than it needs to and does so five nights a week to the sounds of cast iron cookware heating my tea.