Wouldn’t it be loverly if we could ignite all our insanities and watch them burn? Except I’ll take crazy over stupidity any day. I’m a humorist, avid weed removal agriculturist, clean bathtub perfectionist, and all round nutty conversationalist. And it does make me crazy when there’s so much seriousness in the world. Not to mention counting continuously sprouting dandelions, dirty tiles, and those experiences that drive away our wits.
My insanities started at a young age when I was a zit acupuncturist. I learned that there could be averse affects in the practice of pimple popping that may lead to scarring and possibly go deeper into the dermis, saturating the very center of my nervous system and damaging my brain. Or at least that’s what my brother told me. I must have heard from my parents a trillion times, “Have you lost your mind?” My brothers also heard it when they squandered toilet paper by decorating the neighborhood. Then again when they tried to fossilize our pet turtle. I’m sure there’s a fine line between insanity and stupidity. Just for kicks, I put my mother’s electric curlers in the gas oven and turned it on to see what would generate. I thought she was going to kick me to kingdom come. I’m sure I was described as an absurdist. She also said I was temperamental. At the time, I wondered if it meant that I was one part temper, and most parts mental.
Some say illusionists are insane. I guess it depends on what they are imagining. Was I crazy when I conceptualized my fetuses being boys before birth? It’s a wonder I carried children to term when I can’t contain a thought for more than two minutes. After bringing my daughters into this screwy world, I taught them to sing. Because they would soon learn that craziness would be crossing their blood-brain barriers. Teaching them to be vocalists eventually backfired on me. They would complain that I was suffocating them. When I could still hear them, I guess I wasn’t piling enough sandbags at the base of their bedroom doors to prevent me from hearing whines.
The ancient Babylonians based zodiac signs on the constellation the sun was in on the day a person was born. And what we do during pregnancy can determine how a child turns out. Like abstaining from alcohol, tobacco, tuna fish, and swordfighting. I knew that if my newborns came out with any indelible imprints, I’d probably have to spring for reconstructive surgery. Never once did I think about seeing an abortionist. But once or twice I thought of being an adoptionist. Astrologically speaking, we can always go to our horoscope of mind readers to access ourselves. Things that happen may have everything to do with the stars being out of alignment. So maybe it wasn’t me. I could have reaped the wrath from many things, like the times my daughters best friends didn’t attend their birthday parties when there were better cake choices at Safeway. I certainly became a joyist; an emotion elicited by falling in love, becoming a mother, divorcing, and raising kids alone.
The sanity of my very early ancestors was also at stake when they were under the extreme pressure of hunting deadly game and meeting with such impediments as the Andrewsarchus, which was the biggest man eating mammal that ever lived. To think modern man would evolve to be happy and harmonious after gazing into the eyes of those dreadful characters. And if the caveman was building a hut in the sun all day, he was not only in danger of dying from an insanely hungry hovering primate, but also heat exhaustion or lack of UV ultra sunblock. That, or go bonkers not having a nail gun. Today, an urban dweller can cross paths with a rattler or wild boar and call for a rationalist. Or at least somebody holding something more reliable than a slingshot. With the population explosion, hopefully a helper would be more readily available. I wouldn’t want to be a feudist or a defeatist. I’m more of a pacifist. Good things come to those who have the right minds to figure out how to conquer them.
Meeting head to head with a monster scavenger would be enough to morph me into a mixologist. Especially when I overanalyze every grimace that gets in between my God given right to walk around freely and the many other dangers out there. There are those situated far above sea level who don’t get near the proper air concentration needed for the lungs, then the brain doesn’t function to full capacity. Which could result in relying on oxygen masks and rifle ownership. When we get jilted from something, every cerebral cortex handles it differently. I worry some will crack under the pressure of banging their heads against the wall several hundred times. We aren’t concerned when the need for pills has to do with counteracting high cholesterol. But if someone needs sedation to offset hearing little voices, some call it insanity. We all know that repetitive stress can trigger reactions. Thus any confusion created in the old noggin cannot override the body’s natural urge to choke someone.
Sometimes I have temporary insanity. But if I ever get beyond a reasonable point of no return, hopefully you won’t see the crazy in my eyes when I’m holding a serrated knife. I’m more about being a diffusionist. If someone rides the batty bus, or tries getting their dinner quicker by screaming through straws in restaurants, or plays out a manic fear of sandpaper in hardware stores, or sits on a park bench holding a light saber professing to be Luke Skywalker, those things we can only get away with when we’re five. Everyone is insane to a certain degree. Even if I’m Glen Close to being a fatal attraction, I would still have a lot of catching up to do with her.
(You can find posts in the weekend editions of THE PARSON’S SUN – Parson’s Kansas)