Wednesday, July 13, 2011

If We Weren't So Alike You'd Like Me A Whole Lot More

Sometimes I just really wish that my world had more properties of a claymation film. I'm not wild about the gross teeth and the creepy blinking that are inevitable byproducts of the claymation process, but I do think it would be hugely useful in the aspects of the consequence-free self mutilation and dramatic punishment of others.

For instance: the next time I get a migraine as bad as the ones I've had the last few weeks and some brutal soul decides that that's funny, I think the world would be a better place if I were free to wrestle that person to the ground, spear them through the ears with twin apple corer peeler slicers, and just start turning both instruments in opposite directions, letting their skin peel off in delicate spirals and their flesh be sliced into precise, concentric circles. If I could do this to someone without the actual gore, I'm pretty sure my head would feel much, much better.

And if the next time I'm subjected to being within earshot of a conversation with my boss's boss--the one whose voice has a throaty, dull, moist quality that feels like two rotting, mushy pieces of wood smacking against a rubber buoy--I was able to pull my skin away from the corners of my mouth and use my entire face-flesh as an appropriate cushion between my ear drums and the voice, I'd be better able to get through the day. See? Being mutable clay would have its advantages sometimes.

I can say with some certainty that the hands down best way to start off a day is to enthusiastically freak out to "Twist and Shout" in the middle of a gas station with one's big brother. Although it didn't hurt that we got to pass all the hot air balloons rising off the field with graceful majesty right before the fortuitous tunage. Yes, there is such a thing as a majestic thirty-foot-tall inflated Smoky the Bear head. The only one who surpassed our benevolent guardian of the forest was the sensuous yet dignified Coke bottle.

When you take a moment to look at it objectively, hot air balloons as an enterprise are just uncommon strange, even before you branch off into shapes.

The other day Jason, Rosemary, and I were discussing the environment when I used the phrase "don't shit where you eat." Jason was in Jason-like hysterics (meaning he laughed) for the next five minutes, saying that hearing that folksy-type phrase coming out of my mouth was just jarring and ridiculous. So let's clear something up, here and now:
My grandparents were farmers or the children of farmers. Half of them come from Canada, half from the exotic County Weber. Sugar beet factories, bee farms, truck driving, alcoholism, and spinning wheels figure heavily into my very near and dear history, as do the early loss of teeth and the tendency to view with deep suspicion people who pay for a hair cut. We don't be fancy folk. Which I enjoy immensely, it makes family reunions much more entertaining. Also, despite the fact that I've been talking everybody's ear off about my symposium in Savannah and how I'm going to be the most sophisticated world-travelling art historian since Brad Pitt (re: Mr and Mrs Smith), this does not mean that I don't get/want to pepper my talk with more savory phrases. There's only so many times you can use the word "aesthetic" in a paragraph without needing to go have a vigorous game of horseshoes with the second cousins to help regain a personality.
I've spent the last two months living on a raw, raggedy edge; my nerves have been laid open like an exposed wire, reacting with violent sparks and sputters to every fluctuation in mood or routine, bound to blow at the very next encounter with any hint of friction. I'm twitching around haphazardly, trying to keep my glazed focus on something--anything--all while I swear even the ends of my hair are shredding at a faster rate in order to keep up with my mind.

That said, I think the very nature of this chaos has helped me suck out the marrow of what summer should be whenever I've gotten the chance. Even while most days I've been so wrapped up in my own head that I've been about as useful as a screen door on a submarine, there have still been the nighttime croquet games. Hour-long games of catch, moments stolen sitting with friends on the curb in a summer thunderstorm, treks at midnight to the cheap taco stand, all have been made that much sweeter and Epic in contrast. I have the bug bites to prove it: my half-gnawed carcass is evidence that despite the fact that my brain has been like a turtle on Prozac, I'm still living life.

A symptom of my constant frenzied state of brain has been my abuse of Bush's "Glycerine" on my playlists. I don't know if that is due to the song being almost chewable in it's melancholy angst, or if I just feel better every time I compare myself to Gavin Rossdale. My life may lack a certain panache, and I very likely will flunk the GRE, but at least I'm not a washed-up one-album-wonder who married Gwen Stefani in a mutual sell-out that has lead them down the path of paired lameness ever since. I'm no Gavin Rossdale. It's become a mantra.