MESS
There was a time when I used to crap in my own pants then expect someone else to clean it up. I was very young. I don't remember but I'm assured it's true. I'm pretty certain my first words were,"would you be kind enough to direct me to the bathroom? This current arrangement is undignified for both of us." Today when I discover a baby has created such a mess I hand the little critter back to a parent. Baby poo is their problem.
When I was twelve years old I drank so much champagne at a new years eve party that I threw up all over a bathroom. I intended to use the white pocelain receptacle but the room was spinning like Steve Austen's space craft so the nouveau riche bathroom carpet took a hit.
I was in no state to clean up, it was Mrs. O'dea's champagne and she was silly enough to carpet a bathroom, let her deal with it.
At sixteen I got hammered with my mates for the first time. I snuck home, dashed upstairs for a shower, clean the beer smell off my breath, and sat down to a family dinner. It was a middle class home so no one noticed.
I learned to hide my mess.
As I headed into adult relationships I discovered the joy of stoic silence. A zen condition of nothingness whereby the other person is forced to fix any problems for both.
Belligerence was an interesting phase. "You got a problem? Fuck you!" Very effective. If you don't like my mess you can fuck off, accept me, accept my mess.
I remember chatting with a very cool piano player. I was talking about that moment at a wedding reception when the annoying enthusiastic girl has you by the hand, insisting that you really want to dance, that she is helping you by physically dragging you onto the floor. I was trying to invent a method to diffuse that situation politely, without resortting to breaking her pudgy little fingers. I couldn't imagine a way, I'll never forget his response. "I don't let it get to that stage in the first place."
This idea had never occured to me before. I was familiar with every response to a mess once my pants were full of it, the idea of being a grown up and not making the mess in the first place was brilliant. Don't drink too much, don't let a relationship fall apart before I act, don't crap in my own pants.
I have a friend who keeps on returning to a violent, drug addicted man. I don't know how to explain it to her. There won't always be a parent, a policeman, me, to help her out. Maybe she just needs to crap in her own pants until she grows up.
Parkstreet.http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
When I was twelve years old I drank so much champagne at a new years eve party that I threw up all over a bathroom. I intended to use the white pocelain receptacle but the room was spinning like Steve Austen's space craft so the nouveau riche bathroom carpet took a hit.
I was in no state to clean up, it was Mrs. O'dea's champagne and she was silly enough to carpet a bathroom, let her deal with it.
At sixteen I got hammered with my mates for the first time. I snuck home, dashed upstairs for a shower, clean the beer smell off my breath, and sat down to a family dinner. It was a middle class home so no one noticed.
I learned to hide my mess.
As I headed into adult relationships I discovered the joy of stoic silence. A zen condition of nothingness whereby the other person is forced to fix any problems for both.
Belligerence was an interesting phase. "You got a problem? Fuck you!" Very effective. If you don't like my mess you can fuck off, accept me, accept my mess.
I remember chatting with a very cool piano player. I was talking about that moment at a wedding reception when the annoying enthusiastic girl has you by the hand, insisting that you really want to dance, that she is helping you by physically dragging you onto the floor. I was trying to invent a method to diffuse that situation politely, without resortting to breaking her pudgy little fingers. I couldn't imagine a way, I'll never forget his response. "I don't let it get to that stage in the first place."
This idea had never occured to me before. I was familiar with every response to a mess once my pants were full of it, the idea of being a grown up and not making the mess in the first place was brilliant. Don't drink too much, don't let a relationship fall apart before I act, don't crap in my own pants.
I have a friend who keeps on returning to a violent, drug addicted man. I don't know how to explain it to her. There won't always be a parent, a policeman, me, to help her out. Maybe she just needs to crap in her own pants until she grows up.
Parkstreet.http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
1 comment:
Digging the new graphics.
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