In Which the Wind Has Curious Effects

07/25/2006 6:41 AM - 7:10 AM

I’m thinking that worrying is the evil twin planning. Men tracht und Gott lacht. But without planning, our actions are more likely to have undesirable consequences. I plan to go to work when I get up in the morning and dress and shower accordingly. The vast majority of the time, this is effective. I go to bed early, planning to get up early and work on something. This is not so effective. But these are the minors.

Perhaps what I’m thinking of is not planning so much, though. Perhaps it’s merely well thought out daydreaming. I daydream about my cabin in the woods, cottage by the water and then try to figure out how I’m going to get there. But the cabin is as far from me as a quiet pub in a backwater of Ireland. So I try to tack down the future, plan it, chart it, graph it, but this isn’t possible. All I’ve got is this vague box of the present. Sometimes, I find hope in planning for getting to the cabin by writing novels. Sometimes, by comics, sometimes by a bookstore, sometimes by a real job where they offer you a dental plan and pay you for eating lunch. These are exciting when they arise at the right time, but they have no more bearing on reality than the occasional bout of fear of ending up on the street again. Though the second would seem to be much easier to attain.

It’s an odd dilemma. Those complex fantasies of the future, both the worry and the plan, bare a strong resemblance to making up a story, except that the main character in the story is me. My favorite protagonist is a character much abused and rewarded by his author. I identify so strongly with him, fictional as he is. I’m pleasantly distracted by this train of thought. Out of habit, I keep saying, “when I grow up…” but then I remember, “oh, I am grown up.” Oh, Magic 8 Ball, what will I be when I grow up? My toy is defective. All that is says, over and over again, is “try again later.” Mmm… that rain-wind blowing through the window reminds me of excellent fantasies of my madness. Flight. I do have to say this about when I was crazy – you could feel joy cut you through like ten thousand bat teeth. It’s just that the terror and self-loathing that followed the falls lasted for so much longer than the joy. No. Better to be small and sane than a crazy god. Yes. Better. But, God, the smell of that wind.