Post Memories of the Girl of the Nice People

The drum of the airplane, it hums loudly. The screws, the construction are wobbly. The plane rides like it were on gravel, not going smoothly through the air. The rickety sounds, the creaking of parts that rub together, the metal that squeals and collections of endlessly crossing wires sit behind me. It is the cockpit with a plastic bubble, and the tube of stuff behind me.

The noise and chaos of firing places, near misses, dives and turns – the generation of sound is as from a radio. It is the 1940’s backdrop to a war commercial, but it is what I hear.

So I walk down the stairs, 9 floors because I hate to take an elevator when my legs are often motionless. The constant turn makes me dizzy, and I come out the other end wobbly, kind of like Gumby I think – but I’ve never seen him.

Someone asks Do you know J- F-? No. Well, he sings r- music and sometimes what he has to say is relevant. A nice change in today’s musical climate. Oh yeah?

I don’t know much about pop culture, is how I answer most of those questions. It is true. F- A- K- E- I don’t know any of those people. I don’t know. I also don’t know L- or Az-, Y- neither. I don’t have the time. I spend my life feeling stupid because I don’t know about those people, but who ever wanted to challenge the norm of acceptance anyway. I’d rather build the underworld. It’s challenging too, as I never understood the mode in which these people S-.

I was in the moors of England once. They’re nice; the grass rolls soft like well worn velvet, where the rough patches represent where the grass has been trampled down. In the field three boys, of which I am one are running and chasing cows. We pull their tails to see how long we can hold on for – either to run or not. Someone gets bucked in the face, and loses for teeth. But don’t worry they grow back – over time, a 3rd set. It’s abnormal how reason can swiggle it’s way into our lives. An experience that turns into comfort like the most silky cup of cocoa.

There is a cycle of viciousness. Don’t assume that the nice people are incapable of adventure, of malicious behaviour, of formal indifference. The cycle is of your assumption of the nice people. And their descendants. And their beneficiaries.

Often they glean life’s lessons from the embittered people, or those whose anger is deemed unnecessary, irrational, malfunctional. They roll concepts in their mouths, like those who roll words, or like children roll gum. At least this one does.

Do you know sometimes feeling is negated by too much imagination? Imagination of things like legends and moral stigma. And then things are not tested in the real mechanics of life, but in the theory of mind: one never learns to accept feeling associated with the flow of life.
So a gift is given and a person cannot cry from thankfulness.
So a blow is given and a person cannot cry from shock
So a threat is uttered and a person cannot reason and fight, but cry.
And the tears are for the weakness of confusion, not for the forthright mind.

A collector of stories sits on a bench by a pond in the park. It’s a sunny day. The collector is young – fourty five, vivacious. She traveled to France once. In her youth.
But she dreamt of going to Africa and then felt she’d been there already. She almost went to a small island in Asia too, but she bought herself a house.
She does cry a little – her books are nought but badly illustrated comic strips, and there are no pictures.

But that’s okay because I’m flying my war plane over heard, above, rickety or not, battle in mind. I am defender of the territory.