Hats. An On Again- Off Again Relationship.Posted: March 15, 2014
When you love something immensely, you put it on your head.
I do at least.
In a manner of sheer ape-ish enthusiasm, the object of my delight is on my head and I am proceeding about my day. I do it in the bakery all the time (bagels).
I don’t seem to be able to help it. When entranced by an object, I have it as close to my head as I can whilst trying to keep the situation from getting messy, whilst also enjoying it when the messiness comes to a head…my head.
So I wear it upon my head, like a King wears his crown out of either love for the power or love for the duty. Or perhaps just the love of looking lovely in a crown.
Things I have put on my head owing to enthusiasm.
Buckets are an obvious example I’m sure we can all relate to, and this is probably owing to the fact that we get so content with a bucket around. A bucket- the archetypal vessel- has never been able to be replaced, and so in the presence of such perfection- we are happy, and we put it on our head.
You can’t beat a nice, warm bucket on a Saturday afternoon in the summer time.
In my opinion, seeing as how harsh the world is going to become in terms of surviving the future…buckets are going to become more in vogue than fucking, and that’s been popular since before there was a word for it.
So we put it on our heads (both buckets and fucking)
Why on our head?
Because it is notable about us- what we wear upon our head is an obvious statement of what we regard as important at the time of being viewed. Such as the king’s crown, such as when I am jubilant about apples (I also wear apples…because I’m really, really happy about them).
It is as if we are stating: “Yes- it certainly is on my head, just as it deserves to be. What are you going to do about it?”
I left the previous many paragraphs for about two weeks. This was owing to drunkenness. Not from being drunk for two weeks, which is beside the point, but because when I was writing last- I was somewhat hammered. Which did not help. Which is a shame because at the time it felt like it did
I was waiting for something to say, but now I know I shouldn’t wait. Nor should you.
I swear that sometimes you just need something to say and that you shouldn’t pussy around with the intimidation of the blank page and the feeling that “I can only write when it comes naturally”. Force those words and then you’ll be able to do whatever you want with that once blank page.
So that’s the situation. Write whatever you feel like and if a point comes out of it then that can turn out to be the good reason for it. Other than that- just continue doing things to keep that page from being blank. I mean- I started out talking about hats for fuck sake, and now here I am giving the down-low on writing ethics.
It’s not just about writing, as the philosophy translates easily to leaving your front door.
I caught a frog within seconds of leaving my front door three days ago, the broken toe I temporarily had was all forgotten for the moment, and the wish to only capitalise on the moment being lived was all that existed, aside from the frog.
It took a moment to pick it up, but other than that it was docile as toast.
What do you mean by that Sam?
Well, thanks for asking and let me get right down the brass tacks of answering your question.
‘Docile as toast’, which I have referred to this frog repeatedly as, is a nod towards the fact that the sheer amount of resistance the frog put up against my ‘carpe diem’ sensibilities of the moment was the act of being apparently buttery and falling.
Which is what toast does. It can be vaguely slippery and fall.
And then when it falls, it lands, and typically it simply remains. Which is what the frog did.
I couldn’t really call it a ‘get away’.
And so the simile works.
‘Docile as toast’- use it.
But I still had to repeat and utter and acknowledge and repeat the fact to the people that I encountered that day that I had caught a frog and that it was docile as toast.
The brilliance of the situation, the entire surge of the ‘carpe diem’ momentum that had willed me palm-wise towards a frog seemed lost on them, as was the simile- which I still maintain is worth anyone’s time.
To share the victory (called as such because I realised that technically I hadn’t lost anything) was a fubar point to these people.
I had to carry the joy that was temporary with me so as to make it from my front door of that morning until the next victory occurred.
Sometimes, that has to happen.
No one else ‘gets’ the joy, and so you have to be a little more joyous- not that you should keep smiling too much otherwise it will ruin everything you. Looking like a psycho only works is a few stabby little circles.
To re-iterate though, you should not forget that when you were putting that frog on your head because you were happy about it- it was more than an act of doing what you wanted with the blank page of your day- it was an act that might have led to a good reason.
Your ‘good reason’, your ‘point’, is our own meaning of life, and it is only likely to happen when you push and smile.
Do whatever you want to that blank page, discover if a ‘good reason’ happens afterwards and then put the consequences on your head because you love it. And keep pushing and smiling, but don’t smile too much.
If you want…
So, that’s where you get to with a blank page that you bully into being whatever you want, then talk about the importance of putting that pride and joy on your head, followed finally by saying you should apply this to your waking life as well. You get a blog, and you get that blog because you weren’t being a pussy.
Here’s another point, applicable to some other subject if not this one…I like the wording of it though- I might use it next time:
Sons and daughters of the land, throughout your lives, every proud moment of yours that your parents have rejoiced in, your mother has deep-down experienced the ultimate ‘emotion’ of “my-fanny-did-that”. Well done her.
That’s it- I found my good reason…I might print this and put it on my head. I hope you find your good reason too.
Don’t be a pussy with a blank page.