where's your head at?
I've come to an interesting conclusion of late. However, in order to fully grasp it, you'll have to follow the long, winding road of my logic for a few paragraphs.
I was told not too long ago that people tend to prepare for my rantings with some combination of dread, time management, pre-medication or total avoidance. As such, disclaimers are probably pointless before I leap into the fray of musing on a topic that suits my fancy.
However, as a concerned citizen, I feel the need to preamble for the benefit of those new to the experience of the special form of tourettes I'm inflicted with that people excuse for writing.
That said, I'll go back to blindly plowing forward for a bit.
I am, according to the opinions of a foolish few and approximately 15 megabytes of my own self-created fame, an artist. In simplest terms, as a means of occupying my copious free time I am employed in the somewhat arduous task of doing my damnest to not grow up. I'm given to justifying this otherwise eccentric behavior by occassionally knocking out an entertaining notion or two in various media.
In a nutshell, that's the gig.
Of course my bankroll plainly states that I'm merely weird and not a the sort of fabulous eccentric that exists only when the gazillions of rubles necessary to disconnect one entirely from reality are at the command of my whims. Still, I think the point has been established that I am specifically in the business of being a strange kid.
A mister Pablo Picasso beat this idea so firmly into the ground that I feel little need to dwell further upon it, save for the fact that being "artistic" is a wonderful cover for the otherwise completely impaired yet savvy manchild.
So, call it being a kid at heart or refusing to grow up, on one level I'm a child professionally. My knees, tax payments and few other items however argue with some substance to the possibility that I'm a geniune, on-the-grid-and-in-the-census grown-up.
A concept rife with conflict I'm sure, but not exactly where I'm heading at the moment. What I'm looking at is the specific thread where I realize that I'm a child at work, but if you follow the logic technically I'm an official-or-otherwise adult once I punch out of the studio for the day.
I add to this conjecture another tidbit I scraped up from one of my intellectual mentors, a gent known as Sam Clemens only to his bartender. (and possibly not even to him.)
This fellow, who I admire endlessly, pointed out that Providence had a tendancy to protect children and idiots, and knew it to be true because he had occassion more than once to test the theory.
Did you feel that? That whooshing noise audible just below the snoring and occular rolling sound? That was us arriving somewhere on the grassy knoll of my recent conclusion. Allow me to grab a black suit, light a cigarette and talk through my tightly clenched teeth, we've entered Serlingville ... population me.
Picture if you will...a man with a dangerous job. Employeed to play with ideas and fire. A child of art by day, and an adult of the real and deadly world by night...
Woah! Hold your horses Rod, what was that part about deadly?
If I let our nervous voiceover master continue, he'd likely go on about how your own home can be far from a salubrious environment. The home, it seems, can be a flat out lethal place to live...full of slippery showers, leaky fuel lines and heavy objects single-mindedly bent on flattening you at every turn.
And Rod'd by right, by thunder.
As with every scientific theory, evidence of a phenomenon is required. Submitted for your approval:
I managed on one occassion in the studio to set myself, my workbench and more or less everything in a three foot radius around me ablaze. In a single, fluid movement that would shame Dance-Dance-Something-Or-Other experts worldwide I had everything extinguished in seconds with no damage whatsoever.
A few nights later I made schezuan beef with a side of barbequed hand in the kitchen.
I've broken with blade-flinging force no less than 10 razor thin and hellishly sharp sawblades on a single project with no notable effect on my wellbeing.
The wounds of the screwdriver dropping incident when assembling my office have mostly healed without scarring.
I regularly employ, in the pursuit of fine jewelry making, chemical compounds likely outlawed by the geneva convention.
My cat, in contrast, has nearly hospitalized me when I attempted to give her an antibiotic.
I have recently set antique and sentimenal stones of fragile nature, a task requiring a combination of a surgeon's precision and a dancer's grace.
Shortly thereafter, my attempts at rewiring the entertainment center left me in my current state...questioning reality while nursing both my pride and a mild concussion.
While I'll definitely recover, I may never be the same. Unfortunately, that has little to do with the head injury. This wound was caused from the all-to-grown-up problem of having too much time to think whilst lying under an icepack on the couch.
It's my conclusion that, for your own safety, I urge everyone to get in touch with their inner child as quickly as possible. It may be the only way the smarter of us will be safe from dangers in the home.
For my lot, the situation is regretable. Child labor laws are such that I can only force the young whelp to function for so many hours a day, and my career choices have spoken for all of them.
Which means I finally have a solid excuse for being an idiot from time to time.
06 / 05 / 2009