10 May 2013

timpeltje: (Default)
Sometimes, the written word is my only defence. Well – who am I kidding? – it is ALWAYS my only defence. Oftentimes my written words have to defend or deny whatever the spoken word blurted out without letting Reason (beautiful Reason!) or Consideration filter out anything that might be perceived as ludicrous, exaggerated, horny, perverted, flatulent, etc.

I consider myself socially backward/awkward, and I am perfectly okay with that. I think the only reason people want to hang out with me and listen to my spoken words, is because they are so masochistic as to see me make extreme and weird oral statements that I will then have to retract in writing. For them, it offers intellectual entertainment, something that I can only applaud (because it filters out morons, basically (see what I did there? complicated compliment for all of you!)); at least I am not considered to be like “that one black guy” in the group so those around me can feel entirely PC. Frankly, I guess that’s because I’m not black (Detective Timmy Solves The Case Again!).

Every sentence I have ever written in my life (with a few exceptions, I will admit (e.g. “I’ll be there at 10!”, “I’m running late, let’s say 10.30?”, “OK, I got drunk and missed my bus, and I don’t really want to see you anyway”)) has been the result of Filtering. Not just the boring filters I mention above, also the whimsical or fun ones. This process started a long long time ago, back in the day when I was still missing my nappies, reluctantly having accepted the “Curse of Continence”...

*flashback begins*

I guess I must have been around 10 or 11. I was given a writing assignment: “Write a story about ‘A Day in the Life of <a Profession>’ ”. Now I don’t remember why I picked Toby the Ambulance who was now serving as a funeral hearse, but even then, as crude as the story was written, it told the reader more about me than it did about Toby. What was Toby’s crash a metaphor for? Why did that police car try to assault Toby, and why did Toby like being assaulted? Why did he fill himself up with Diesel while all he was built for was Regular? And how could all of this trauma fit on two handwritten A4s?
The questions are hard to answer right now, even for the story’s author (because I don’t remember ever being employed as an ambulance, nor ever being inside one (well, I have been in one, but the alcohol poisoning cleared that embarrassing memory from my mind, something I am still thanking my brain for)).
The teacher’s comments on the little story were dubious as well. He wrote this: “It’s very good that you are trying to develop an own voice, but don’t be too ambitious.” (anyone else agree that ambition should be stimulated, rather than stopped before it can bloom? What a dick! (a comment that has been filtered, just FYI))
Asking me to stay after class, he asked me everything was alright with me and what I was trying to tell with my story and if I needed any help, because he thought what I had written was quite disturbing.
Right now, I’d act like a diva, pull down my trousers and jiggle my junk until Teacher got dizzy, but back then, all I could do was cry, which of course made him think he was right.
I know what you’re thinking: “You, macho man Timmy? Crying?” I know, I know, but at the time, it was my best defence to get what I wanted (chocolate, mostly). Writing this, I came up with an even better defence strategy: crying AND jiggling my junk! There is no stopping this writer!
Luckily, Teacher’s interest in my situation wasn’t as high. My guess was he was just trying to look for a reason to flirt with my mother some more, and that wasn’t something I’d have granted him so easily.

*flashback ends*

Ah, Written Word, you comfort me. You let me fondle you without limits, let me invent new phrases, combinations of words that were never part of language before, or let me lick the pages of your dictionary (DO IT!), gently stroke the computer screen that holds your alphabet...


I think I just came...