NervousMan walked about 35-40 minutes around campus, sitting and resting for a few minutes at one point. He watched the many people walking and looking at the screens they held in their hands.
The hopeful side of NervousMan said, 'Well at least they're getting out, and being around each other. In the fresh air and sunshine'.
The cynical side said, 'We're more in touch with the machines now, than each other. They are like extensions of our nervous systems now. We expect them. We see the world through them'.
'Maybe they will lead us back to each other,' the hopeful side replied.
The cynical side said, 'That is never the way'.
The tower bell rang, 15 minutes after, and NervousMan thought, 'God is not a place outside ourselves,' and he thought on this.
'Poetic', said the other side, finally. 'If that is not in the Bible then it should be'.
Perhaps that is the way to think about it, NervousMan thought to himself. 'God is not a place outside ourselves'. The spark is always divine, and it resides within us, for as long as we live.
Sunday, July 17, 2016
Saturday, June 21, 2014
NervousMan's Fantasy
Lately, NervousMan had a fantasy that his mind kept going back to.
NervousMan would be walking along a city street, rather the way he was now: but instead of catching himself from falling, the way he did over and over by walking, NervousMan would suddenly not catch himself and pitch forward, planting his face onto the cold cement beneath him, collapsing upon it in a limp heap.
NervousMan could almost hear the shouts of alarm from unseen and concerned passersby, the sound of running feet coming up to him, voices in tense tones talking on their cell phones, calling 911.
And finally, the sound of the ambulance siren getting closer until he was turned over and worked on by dark clad saviors asking him what year it was. What his name was. Who the President was. He could feel their urgent hands pressing into his side and his neck.
At the end of the fantasy, as he was lifted up on a gurney and placed in the waiting EMT vehicle, the crowd around him bursts into applause, romantic music swells, and NervousMan feels a tremendous and tearful gratitude toward everyone involved.
Looking around, NervousMan wondered who the other people were on the street moving past him on the sidewalk. How could he know them? 'Does anyone really know anybody?' thought NervousMan. 'Or are our natures, our true natures, actually ungraspable and forever shrouded in mystery?'.
Maybe the one thing the knower can't know is the one who does the knowing. The one who decides to move an arm or a leg or a body. What moves the body? thought NervousMan. He knew he could come up with various words to describe it: the actor, the agent, the 'me', the 'I', the chairman of the board. But they were only words. Maybe the true thing, at the center of it all, was something that was silent and empty. Maybe that's what made it all possible. How could there be anything without there also being nothing.
"Being nothing?"
NervousMan's thoughts drained away to nothing as he walked on along the city street, catching himself, over and over and over, with each and every step he made.
NervousMan would be walking along a city street, rather the way he was now: but instead of catching himself from falling, the way he did over and over by walking, NervousMan would suddenly not catch himself and pitch forward, planting his face onto the cold cement beneath him, collapsing upon it in a limp heap.
NervousMan could almost hear the shouts of alarm from unseen and concerned passersby, the sound of running feet coming up to him, voices in tense tones talking on their cell phones, calling 911.
And finally, the sound of the ambulance siren getting closer until he was turned over and worked on by dark clad saviors asking him what year it was. What his name was. Who the President was. He could feel their urgent hands pressing into his side and his neck.
At the end of the fantasy, as he was lifted up on a gurney and placed in the waiting EMT vehicle, the crowd around him bursts into applause, romantic music swells, and NervousMan feels a tremendous and tearful gratitude toward everyone involved.
Looking around, NervousMan wondered who the other people were on the street moving past him on the sidewalk. How could he know them? 'Does anyone really know anybody?' thought NervousMan. 'Or are our natures, our true natures, actually ungraspable and forever shrouded in mystery?'.
Maybe the one thing the knower can't know is the one who does the knowing. The one who decides to move an arm or a leg or a body. What moves the body? thought NervousMan. He knew he could come up with various words to describe it: the actor, the agent, the 'me', the 'I', the chairman of the board. But they were only words. Maybe the true thing, at the center of it all, was something that was silent and empty. Maybe that's what made it all possible. How could there be anything without there also being nothing.
"Being nothing?"
NervousMan's thoughts drained away to nothing as he walked on along the city street, catching himself, over and over and over, with each and every step he made.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
NervousMan Walks Home
On the bus coming home, NervousMan wiped tears of stress from his eyes.
'Everyone here seems so strange, they take this place completely for granted,' NervousMan thought.
'I probably come from someplace else. Somewhere where there is peace, because everyone knows what each other is thinking,' he thought again.
NervousMan felt like an unplugged socket. He must be an old soul, but it was his first time here. Somehow he had come here out of curiosity, had even been warned away by the denizens of his home world, but he hadn't heeded the warning. Now he was stuck here. For the duration.
NervousMan simply couldn't remember what or who he was before he was born. He only knew a vague sense of... something.
From the bus, NervousMan watched a woman rolling a suitcase behind her as she walked across the street, her face straining. A small line of cars waited for her to get past.
Everyone is in a hurry to get nowhere fast so they can wait, and be impatient, thought NervousMan.
He grimaced.
He imagined that some people here have been here on this planet, carnating and reincarnating for maybe billions of years, trying to erase their karmic debt.
The bus jolted to a stop, and NervousMan heard the hiss of the air brakes.
This was his stop.
They are players, thought NervousMan, of his fellow passengers disembarking with him. But he was on the sidelines. Observing. And feeling nervous.
Unlike them, NervousMan suspected he had a surplus of karma, not a debt. Yet he was usually too nervous to play.
Later, walking through the supermarket, NervousMan felt burned out. His walk was weak and tired. He could feel the darkness of his own eyes. He watched the other shoppers dart past him with carts and with groceries.
NervousMan felt in the way.
He was hoping he could score some meat loaf, but they only had roasted chickens in the deli section. Perhaps milk, thought NervousMan. He should eat something, he thought, as he stared at a picture of a pastrami sandwich that the sign said was on sale for $5.49. The thought of walking to the other side of the store and back to get milk tired him. Too many decisions, he thought.
Outside, he saw a man in a snake skin jacket and reflective sunglasses lighting a cigarette as he leaned against a post. He could see that the man's skin was taut and leathery and it seemed to shine a bit in the setting sunlight of the waning evening. The man looked up from his cupped hand and saw NervousMan looking at him for a moment. NervousMan looked away.
There's a player, thought NervousMan. 'I wonder if someone like that ever feels phony,' he thought. Probably not. He wondered if they ever tried to figure out who they are. No, thought NervousMan again.
It didn't really matter if they did or not. NervousMan knew, or at least suspected, that this experience was all fake on some level. That would make it a dream, thought NervousMan. Perhaps NervousMan felt a little dreamlike and light-headed. He looked forward to being at home where he could sleep and get some real dreaming done. The proper way.
And home was exactly where NervousMan walked, steadily, slowly, and with resolution, at the end of a long and busy day.
'Everyone here seems so strange, they take this place completely for granted,' NervousMan thought.
'I probably come from someplace else. Somewhere where there is peace, because everyone knows what each other is thinking,' he thought again.
NervousMan felt like an unplugged socket. He must be an old soul, but it was his first time here. Somehow he had come here out of curiosity, had even been warned away by the denizens of his home world, but he hadn't heeded the warning. Now he was stuck here. For the duration.
NervousMan simply couldn't remember what or who he was before he was born. He only knew a vague sense of... something.
From the bus, NervousMan watched a woman rolling a suitcase behind her as she walked across the street, her face straining. A small line of cars waited for her to get past.
Everyone is in a hurry to get nowhere fast so they can wait, and be impatient, thought NervousMan.
He grimaced.
He imagined that some people here have been here on this planet, carnating and reincarnating for maybe billions of years, trying to erase their karmic debt.
The bus jolted to a stop, and NervousMan heard the hiss of the air brakes.
This was his stop.
They are players, thought NervousMan, of his fellow passengers disembarking with him. But he was on the sidelines. Observing. And feeling nervous.
Unlike them, NervousMan suspected he had a surplus of karma, not a debt. Yet he was usually too nervous to play.
Later, walking through the supermarket, NervousMan felt burned out. His walk was weak and tired. He could feel the darkness of his own eyes. He watched the other shoppers dart past him with carts and with groceries.
NervousMan felt in the way.
He was hoping he could score some meat loaf, but they only had roasted chickens in the deli section. Perhaps milk, thought NervousMan. He should eat something, he thought, as he stared at a picture of a pastrami sandwich that the sign said was on sale for $5.49. The thought of walking to the other side of the store and back to get milk tired him. Too many decisions, he thought.
Outside, he saw a man in a snake skin jacket and reflective sunglasses lighting a cigarette as he leaned against a post. He could see that the man's skin was taut and leathery and it seemed to shine a bit in the setting sunlight of the waning evening. The man looked up from his cupped hand and saw NervousMan looking at him for a moment. NervousMan looked away.
There's a player, thought NervousMan. 'I wonder if someone like that ever feels phony,' he thought. Probably not. He wondered if they ever tried to figure out who they are. No, thought NervousMan again.
It didn't really matter if they did or not. NervousMan knew, or at least suspected, that this experience was all fake on some level. That would make it a dream, thought NervousMan. Perhaps NervousMan felt a little dreamlike and light-headed. He looked forward to being at home where he could sleep and get some real dreaming done. The proper way.
And home was exactly where NervousMan walked, steadily, slowly, and with resolution, at the end of a long and busy day.
Friday, September 30, 2011
The Crying Man and the Bedbugs
The Crying Man had bedbugs. And they had him.
In fact, he was about all they did have, poor loathsome blood-engorged creatures that they were. Skittering about his studio apartment, silently, like wound-up tiny little robots. Only wanting to live another day. Or night. Unable to even stop and ponder their own meager existences. Always on the search for blood.
His blood.
There really was no getting rid of them. They were a worldwide scourge, currently. As a child The Crying Man's mother used to tell him, "Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite". He always thought it was just a saying. There were no bedbugs then, that he could tell. Now, humanity had settled into a new paradigm: humans PLUS bedbugs.
He had tried sprays, and traps. He even bought an encasement for his mattress, so they couldn't nest inside. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford a second one for the box spring, just yet. These measures, especially the sprays, which he could scarcely afford, only provided relief that lasted a few weeks, like a type of hygiene. Then, the bugs would return. Like jilted yet faithful lovers, coming back into his life.
They came in all sizes. There were the nymphs, the young ones, just big enough to straddle the head of a pin. Kind of reddish in color, like tiny little crabs, he'd find them scampering toward or away from him. Happy, maybe, to be alive. Really, kind of cute in a way, they were mindless little things. He'd smush them with his finger and they'd leave a small dark, rusty smear like the skid mark aftermath of a lilliputian car accident, there on his wall, or on the white encasement which covered his mattress. He'd notice a smell, like ripe figs. Sometimes, the crying man would clean this. Other times he'd leave the smear there, as perhaps a warning, or a kind of memorial. For the others.
The Crying Man would feel bad.
Then, there were the smaller adults, tinier versions of the full grown ones, which he could see puttering about the surface of the uncovered box spring sometimes when he pulled the mattress up, to see if there were any around. There often were. Other times, they were no where to be found. But The Crying Man knew they were there.
They were the closest thing The Crying Man had to roommates.
There were times when The Crying Man would uncover miniature little orgies, at night taking place right below where he slept. Little reveries taking place. Breedings. Goings on.
One time it was where the zipper, not quite closed, on the mattress encasement, sort of pooched out, letting them in. And out. They must place such significance on that hole, he thought.
There, he'd find them in these miniature, bacchanalian tribal affairs imagining he was breaking up a great party as the little bugs fucked and socialized, maybe, in their buggy kind of way swapped stories about him, their God, amidst a smattering of eggs and larvae which darkened the temporary hole in his defenses like some kind of encroaching mold.
Revolted at these discoveries, The Crying Man would quickly grab the half-bottle of lime green and cleansing glass cleaner he kept in the kitchen and sprayed for all he was worth, between sobs, soaking and saturating them in the caustic liquid chemicals.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he would say, his revulsion turning into pity, his eyes blinded by tears as he squeezed the plastic trigger of the bottle again and again. The little bodies writhed beneath him, in agony.
After all, what else did the little creatures have, but The Crying Man? He must be like their God. A force, un-seeable, yet all pervading. Omnipresent. Sustaining, yet terrible: He gave life, and then he took it away. And every 3 or 4 nights, they would take communion, using his body as the host.
Oh, it wasn't asking much. A bite here, a nibble there. Just enough for sustenance. Nothing fatal, certainly. Just enough to live another few days. They were even nice enough, for the most part, to wait until he was sound asleep. Immobile.
This time, he had woken up at 3am and found one of them scampering away from his arm in the semi-darkness. Lashing out in revulsion, instictively, yet again, The Crying Man smeared the little body on the cover of his sheets as he turned on the end table light and pulled the sheet away from his body. He could see another scamper away over the side of the bed before he could do anything.
"I'm sorry," he would say, seeing what he had done, to the first, and the stared beyond his little cone of light, spying yet another one making its way studiously along the wall nearby his bed, as if a climber on a sheer cliff.
"There's too many of you," he said, frowning.
For a moment, the crying man did nothing but regard it, as it made its way, before reaching over for a tissue on the nightstand and lovingly killing the lost little creature beneath its folds, this time expertly popping its little body within the Kleenex's absorbent confines before getting up and tossing it away the small bundle in the waste paper basket.
"There's too many of you," the crying man said again, sighing.
Wheetmort Pendergrast, The Crying Man, looked around his meager apartment for any more, but couldn't see any. He rubbed his hands against his dark blue plaid pajama bottoms and gave out a sob. The first of many that day.
In fact, he was about all they did have, poor loathsome blood-engorged creatures that they were. Skittering about his studio apartment, silently, like wound-up tiny little robots. Only wanting to live another day. Or night. Unable to even stop and ponder their own meager existences. Always on the search for blood.
His blood.
There really was no getting rid of them. They were a worldwide scourge, currently. As a child The Crying Man's mother used to tell him, "Goodnight, sleep tight, don't let the bedbugs bite". He always thought it was just a saying. There were no bedbugs then, that he could tell. Now, humanity had settled into a new paradigm: humans PLUS bedbugs.
He had tried sprays, and traps. He even bought an encasement for his mattress, so they couldn't nest inside. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford a second one for the box spring, just yet. These measures, especially the sprays, which he could scarcely afford, only provided relief that lasted a few weeks, like a type of hygiene. Then, the bugs would return. Like jilted yet faithful lovers, coming back into his life.
They came in all sizes. There were the nymphs, the young ones, just big enough to straddle the head of a pin. Kind of reddish in color, like tiny little crabs, he'd find them scampering toward or away from him. Happy, maybe, to be alive. Really, kind of cute in a way, they were mindless little things. He'd smush them with his finger and they'd leave a small dark, rusty smear like the skid mark aftermath of a lilliputian car accident, there on his wall, or on the white encasement which covered his mattress. He'd notice a smell, like ripe figs. Sometimes, the crying man would clean this. Other times he'd leave the smear there, as perhaps a warning, or a kind of memorial. For the others.
The Crying Man would feel bad.
Then, there were the smaller adults, tinier versions of the full grown ones, which he could see puttering about the surface of the uncovered box spring sometimes when he pulled the mattress up, to see if there were any around. There often were. Other times, they were no where to be found. But The Crying Man knew they were there.
They were the closest thing The Crying Man had to roommates.
There were times when The Crying Man would uncover miniature little orgies, at night taking place right below where he slept. Little reveries taking place. Breedings. Goings on.
One time it was where the zipper, not quite closed, on the mattress encasement, sort of pooched out, letting them in. And out. They must place such significance on that hole, he thought.
There, he'd find them in these miniature, bacchanalian tribal affairs imagining he was breaking up a great party as the little bugs fucked and socialized, maybe, in their buggy kind of way swapped stories about him, their God, amidst a smattering of eggs and larvae which darkened the temporary hole in his defenses like some kind of encroaching mold.
Revolted at these discoveries, The Crying Man would quickly grab the half-bottle of lime green and cleansing glass cleaner he kept in the kitchen and sprayed for all he was worth, between sobs, soaking and saturating them in the caustic liquid chemicals.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry" he would say, his revulsion turning into pity, his eyes blinded by tears as he squeezed the plastic trigger of the bottle again and again. The little bodies writhed beneath him, in agony.
After all, what else did the little creatures have, but The Crying Man? He must be like their God. A force, un-seeable, yet all pervading. Omnipresent. Sustaining, yet terrible: He gave life, and then he took it away. And every 3 or 4 nights, they would take communion, using his body as the host.
Oh, it wasn't asking much. A bite here, a nibble there. Just enough for sustenance. Nothing fatal, certainly. Just enough to live another few days. They were even nice enough, for the most part, to wait until he was sound asleep. Immobile.
This time, he had woken up at 3am and found one of them scampering away from his arm in the semi-darkness. Lashing out in revulsion, instictively, yet again, The Crying Man smeared the little body on the cover of his sheets as he turned on the end table light and pulled the sheet away from his body. He could see another scamper away over the side of the bed before he could do anything.
"I'm sorry," he would say, seeing what he had done, to the first, and the stared beyond his little cone of light, spying yet another one making its way studiously along the wall nearby his bed, as if a climber on a sheer cliff.
"There's too many of you," he said, frowning.
For a moment, the crying man did nothing but regard it, as it made its way, before reaching over for a tissue on the nightstand and lovingly killing the lost little creature beneath its folds, this time expertly popping its little body within the Kleenex's absorbent confines before getting up and tossing it away the small bundle in the waste paper basket.
"There's too many of you," the crying man said again, sighing.
Wheetmort Pendergrast, The Crying Man, looked around his meager apartment for any more, but couldn't see any. He rubbed his hands against his dark blue plaid pajama bottoms and gave out a sob. The first of many that day.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
NervousMan is Alone in a Crowd
NervousMan saw the people at the coffee shop downstairs, gathered together in a big circle, laughing and talking and sipping coffee and smoking. NervousMan felt a bit envious. Like, *they* have a peer group, and have a big crowd to be in, to socialize with, and to have fun, with.... and NervousMan just feels jealous and left out.
NervousMan just couldn't make any inroads socially, because... well, because he was so nervous. NervousMan is a...a... 'voluntary isolate', alone in a crowd... someone had once said to him long ago. And yet, even so, NervousMan felt jealous when he saw a big group like that having a good time.
Walking by, NervousMan pictured himself in the group and just IMAGINING it made NervousMan nervous.
NervousMan looked down, and one of the group laughed, and a titter ran through the crowd. Were they laughing at NervousMan? NervousMan didn't know. NervousMan really never knew what people were laughing at when they laughed.
NervousMan thought again to himself (which was his favorite way). 'well, you know, they are a bunch of 20-something hipsters and NervousMan is... NervousMan is just a 45 year.... whaaaat?'.
NervousMan didn't know.
NervousMan sighed, and realized that he didn't fit in anywhere. That was his problem. It was something he had realized before. Like going into an old room where he had been many times.
NervousMan felt self-actualized, but did he actually have a self? NervousMan didn't know.
But he wondered.
Later, NervousMan shifted his weight on the park bench he sat on, under a tree's shade, watching the fountains spraying their whitewater upward on a pillar of white foam and noise. A summer's breeze sent a few sprinkles his way. NervousMan closed his eyes and gasped sharply.
Someone on a park bench nearby bristled, but NervousMan didn't know why.
NervousMan didn't really WANT to fit in anyway, he thought. He felt like he would LOSE himself if he, for a moment 'fit in'. And THAT would be an especially terrifying feeling for NervousMan. His SELF or his... sense of self, well, it was all he really had.
And yet... he did not know what IT was.
Maybe there WAS no 'self', really, thought NervousMan.
Wasn't 'self' just an idea? A word?
But that thought made NervousMan nervous. If he wasn't anybody, who was he?
NervousMan didn't know.
NervousMan looked up watched a large woman in a bright red suit walking quickly by him. He heard the sharp tap-tap-tap of her large shoes as they struck the pavement over and over. NervousMan winced. Her hair was big, and jet black. And NervousMan wondered if it was a wig.
The woman seemed to be coming from an official function and carried some kind of large purse around her shoulder, from which an oxygen tube came. The other end of the tube was under her nose.
'Emphysema' thought NervousMan. Poor woman.
And yet, maybe she had been a real cunt all of her life and deserved it. Blowing smoke in people's faces. Laughing at others, and being cruel. Drinking too much coffee. Looking down on people.
NervousMan didn't know how to feel about the woman because he didn't know who she was.
NervousMan shuddered. He realized that his essential social anxiety stemmed from the fact that he didn't know who he was either. People would ask him about himself in social situations, and NervousMan didn't know how to answer. He was... unsure. Unsure of him self.
Oh sure, most people would say of themselves, 'I'm Steve' or "I'm your waiter this evening" or 'I'm my father's son' or 'I'm a conservative' or "I'm a Mets fan". People like the crowd in front of the coffee shop would say such things s they introduced themselves to each other and smiled and laughed.
That's fine for them, NervousMan thought. They're content with that. They don't feel they need look into the question of 'who they are' any more deeply than that. They are happy.
NervousMan felt nausous.
What if he needed the help of one of those people someday? Had he considered all possibilities? What would he say to them in such circumstances?
NervousMan looked up to the sky which had no clouds in it at all. What a beautiful day it must be, thought NervousMan. He looked at the fountains again and listened to the woooosh they made.
Yes, thought NervousMan, most people did not look very deeply into the question of who they are. On the other hand, NervousMan looked into the question as deeply as he possibly could, at all times. Like a studious astronomer trying to peer back into space to catch a glimpse of the universe's origin. Like these folks he heard about on the radio, when it went off in the morning, looking for 'the God particle'.
Maybe, just maybe, in a sense, NervousMan WAS God. If he really had no self. But... in what sense was that?
NervousMan frowned. That's crazy, he thought.
These questions, they kept NervousMan's mind busy, he supposed.
But, while NervousMan was so busy thinking of these questions, and wondering about it all, he found it really hard to pay attention to whatever else was going on around him, on the outside of things. Yes. NervousMan felt very much on the outside of things. And nervously, that's where he really wanted to be. Things, after all, made NervousMan nervous.
NervousMan just couldn't make any inroads socially, because... well, because he was so nervous. NervousMan is a...a... 'voluntary isolate', alone in a crowd... someone had once said to him long ago. And yet, even so, NervousMan felt jealous when he saw a big group like that having a good time.
Walking by, NervousMan pictured himself in the group and just IMAGINING it made NervousMan nervous.
NervousMan looked down, and one of the group laughed, and a titter ran through the crowd. Were they laughing at NervousMan? NervousMan didn't know. NervousMan really never knew what people were laughing at when they laughed.
NervousMan thought again to himself (which was his favorite way). 'well, you know, they are a bunch of 20-something hipsters and NervousMan is... NervousMan is just a 45 year.... whaaaat?'.
NervousMan didn't know.
NervousMan sighed, and realized that he didn't fit in anywhere. That was his problem. It was something he had realized before. Like going into an old room where he had been many times.
NervousMan felt self-actualized, but did he actually have a self? NervousMan didn't know.
But he wondered.
Later, NervousMan shifted his weight on the park bench he sat on, under a tree's shade, watching the fountains spraying their whitewater upward on a pillar of white foam and noise. A summer's breeze sent a few sprinkles his way. NervousMan closed his eyes and gasped sharply.
Someone on a park bench nearby bristled, but NervousMan didn't know why.
NervousMan didn't really WANT to fit in anyway, he thought. He felt like he would LOSE himself if he, for a moment 'fit in'. And THAT would be an especially terrifying feeling for NervousMan. His SELF or his... sense of self, well, it was all he really had.
And yet... he did not know what IT was.
Maybe there WAS no 'self', really, thought NervousMan.
Wasn't 'self' just an idea? A word?
But that thought made NervousMan nervous. If he wasn't anybody, who was he?
NervousMan didn't know.
NervousMan looked up watched a large woman in a bright red suit walking quickly by him. He heard the sharp tap-tap-tap of her large shoes as they struck the pavement over and over. NervousMan winced. Her hair was big, and jet black. And NervousMan wondered if it was a wig.
The woman seemed to be coming from an official function and carried some kind of large purse around her shoulder, from which an oxygen tube came. The other end of the tube was under her nose.
'Emphysema' thought NervousMan. Poor woman.
And yet, maybe she had been a real cunt all of her life and deserved it. Blowing smoke in people's faces. Laughing at others, and being cruel. Drinking too much coffee. Looking down on people.
NervousMan didn't know how to feel about the woman because he didn't know who she was.
NervousMan shuddered. He realized that his essential social anxiety stemmed from the fact that he didn't know who he was either. People would ask him about himself in social situations, and NervousMan didn't know how to answer. He was... unsure. Unsure of him self.
Oh sure, most people would say of themselves, 'I'm Steve' or "I'm your waiter this evening" or 'I'm my father's son' or 'I'm a conservative' or "I'm a Mets fan". People like the crowd in front of the coffee shop would say such things s they introduced themselves to each other and smiled and laughed.
That's fine for them, NervousMan thought. They're content with that. They don't feel they need look into the question of 'who they are' any more deeply than that. They are happy.
NervousMan felt nausous.
What if he needed the help of one of those people someday? Had he considered all possibilities? What would he say to them in such circumstances?
NervousMan looked up to the sky which had no clouds in it at all. What a beautiful day it must be, thought NervousMan. He looked at the fountains again and listened to the woooosh they made.
Yes, thought NervousMan, most people did not look very deeply into the question of who they are. On the other hand, NervousMan looked into the question as deeply as he possibly could, at all times. Like a studious astronomer trying to peer back into space to catch a glimpse of the universe's origin. Like these folks he heard about on the radio, when it went off in the morning, looking for 'the God particle'.
Maybe, just maybe, in a sense, NervousMan WAS God. If he really had no self. But... in what sense was that?
NervousMan frowned. That's crazy, he thought.
These questions, they kept NervousMan's mind busy, he supposed.
But, while NervousMan was so busy thinking of these questions, and wondering about it all, he found it really hard to pay attention to whatever else was going on around him, on the outside of things. Yes. NervousMan felt very much on the outside of things. And nervously, that's where he really wanted to be. Things, after all, made NervousMan nervous.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
NervousMan Sits Quietly in His Darkened Room
NervousMan sat in his darkened bedroom. The dark felt good on his eyes and let them rest. Sometimes he would open the blinds and let the sun in, but only in the afternoon when the light was indirect.
Sometimes, when NervousMan would walk outside, the sun would hit his eyes and he would sneeze violently. People would stare at NervousMan and NervousMan would feel nervous.
NervousMan wondered if he should sleep. What else is there to do? he thought to himself. This was NervousMan's favorite way of thinking: to himself.
I'll just close my eyes he thought and listen to the silence.
It wasn't entirely silent in NervousMan's room. Somewhere off in the distance, he could hear the faint revving of a leaf blower, starting and stopping and starting again. Somewhere, leaves were being blown along the sidewalk, by someone.
Perhaps the rain had knocked the leaves down, thought NervousMan. NervousMan liked the rain. It gave him an excuse to stay inside.
NervousMan wondered who the person with the leafblower was. Maybe the leafblower was a nice person. And pleasant. Someone who was not at all nervous. Just blowing leaves.
NervousMan enjoyed silence more than noise. Noise made NervousMan nervous. If he were walking outside and a door opened suddenly nearby, or someone closed a car hood, or if people laughed suddenly, NervousMan would jump, and his heart would race. Other people would walk by as if nothing had happened.
What was wrong with NervousMan? NervousMan didn't know. NervousMan frowned in the darkness of his room. Perhaps, if I can find out what is wrong, then I can set it right, he thought to himself again.
But first, he had to know.
NervousMan felt tired and he reminded himself to breathe again. Why did he keep forgetting? What was wrong? That was the question he wanted to know the answer to. And yet the question made NervousMan weary, tired, sleepy.
For now, NervousMan would sleep. Maybe by the time he woke up, things would be better than they were now.
Sleeping is good, NervousMan thought. In dreams, NervousMan was a God, but when he woke up, here in the other world, he was only a man.
Slowly, NervousMan lifted the covers and made his way into his bed. It was only 4pm but it would be nice to be in the dreamworld for a few hours.
From far away the leafblower continued to blow. NervousMan could hear it, his eyes shining in the darkness.
What is wrong? What is wrong? he thought as the room seemed to get darker around him. What is wrong with me? NervousMan thought as he drifted off to sleep.
Sometimes, when NervousMan would walk outside, the sun would hit his eyes and he would sneeze violently. People would stare at NervousMan and NervousMan would feel nervous.
NervousMan wondered if he should sleep. What else is there to do? he thought to himself. This was NervousMan's favorite way of thinking: to himself.
I'll just close my eyes he thought and listen to the silence.
It wasn't entirely silent in NervousMan's room. Somewhere off in the distance, he could hear the faint revving of a leaf blower, starting and stopping and starting again. Somewhere, leaves were being blown along the sidewalk, by someone.
Perhaps the rain had knocked the leaves down, thought NervousMan. NervousMan liked the rain. It gave him an excuse to stay inside.
NervousMan wondered who the person with the leafblower was. Maybe the leafblower was a nice person. And pleasant. Someone who was not at all nervous. Just blowing leaves.
NervousMan enjoyed silence more than noise. Noise made NervousMan nervous. If he were walking outside and a door opened suddenly nearby, or someone closed a car hood, or if people laughed suddenly, NervousMan would jump, and his heart would race. Other people would walk by as if nothing had happened.
What was wrong with NervousMan? NervousMan didn't know. NervousMan frowned in the darkness of his room. Perhaps, if I can find out what is wrong, then I can set it right, he thought to himself again.
But first, he had to know.
NervousMan felt tired and he reminded himself to breathe again. Why did he keep forgetting? What was wrong? That was the question he wanted to know the answer to. And yet the question made NervousMan weary, tired, sleepy.
For now, NervousMan would sleep. Maybe by the time he woke up, things would be better than they were now.
Sleeping is good, NervousMan thought. In dreams, NervousMan was a God, but when he woke up, here in the other world, he was only a man.
Slowly, NervousMan lifted the covers and made his way into his bed. It was only 4pm but it would be nice to be in the dreamworld for a few hours.
From far away the leafblower continued to blow. NervousMan could hear it, his eyes shining in the darkness.
What is wrong? What is wrong? he thought as the room seemed to get darker around him. What is wrong with me? NervousMan thought as he drifted off to sleep.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
NervousMan and the Trip to the Bank Part 1
"Forgiveness" thought NervousMan, for reasons he could not even fathom.
NervousMan sat in the darkness of his room and regarded the unseen walls around him. It was daytime, but he had the blinds drawn. He was distant and away from all the noises of the day. The garish noon-day sun did not bother his eyes and the sound of screams and laughter outside did not reach his ears.
NervousMan sighed.
Getting up from his bed, head bowed, he looked on the floor for his shirt. Maybe there was another day's wear from it. It seemed as if the activity of laundry was forever, thought NervousMan. Where was that shirt, he thought.
Turning on a light, NervousMan spied a piece of paper on the carpet, next to the light stand.
Pick it up and put it in the trash, he thought. But what was it?
NervousMan unfolded the piece of paper.
Oh, this was the check that he had gotten from The 59 Club contest that he had won. But it had been so long ago. Was it still good?
NervousMan squinted and looked at the fine print.
The date read: August 21st, 2007
and underneath this - This check is payable up to 20 months from date of issuance.
Let's see, thought NervousMan. April, May, June, July, August.... in 4 months it would have been 2 years! That's 24 months. So minus 4 months, cuz it's 4 months away... that's ... TODAY!
NervousMan looked around for his pants. He had to get to the bank before it closed. He had one hour to cash this check!
He looked again at the amount the money was for.
$59,000.00
NervousMan thought that must be a lot of money. It seemed like it was.
NervousMan felt nervous.
Quickly, he pulled on his shirt and pants, not even bothering to locate his underwear. I can bathe later, he thought. NervousMan hadn't bathed in two days.
Locking the door to his room, NervousMan walked as briskly as he could down the hall. His eyes squinted involuntarily at the lights in the hallway. His teeth felt on edge. NervousMan could feel the sock bunched up under his foot from his mismatched sock, but he did not stop to fix it. The bank was only 3 blocks away.
As NervousMan rode the elevator down, he was glad he was in it by himself. He probably didn't smell very good.
"I have my wallet?" NervousMan thought. He felt his back pocket again and pulled it out, making sure the check was still within.
Good, NervousMan thought, his thumb feeling the edge of the soft paper. Good.
The doors to the elevator opened with a sharp ding.
NervousMan saw a dour-faced lady standing by the door, waiting to use the car. Her right arm propping herself up with the use of a crutch, the kind that goes around the forearm.
"I'm sorry" NervousMan said at once. The woman scowled at him as he brushed past her and made his way outside.
The sun assaulted NervousMan's eyes, practically blinding him. He could feel a sneeze welling up inside.
Which way was the bank? From behind him, NervousMan heard laughter erupt and he felt momentarily a laughingstock. Which way was the bank?
NervousMan padded his way along the hard cement almost tripping over the curb. A car honked and NervousMan held up his hand as if to say 'thank you for stopping'. Still, NervousMan couldn't really see.
He walked on.
NervousMan sat in the darkness of his room and regarded the unseen walls around him. It was daytime, but he had the blinds drawn. He was distant and away from all the noises of the day. The garish noon-day sun did not bother his eyes and the sound of screams and laughter outside did not reach his ears.
NervousMan sighed.
Getting up from his bed, head bowed, he looked on the floor for his shirt. Maybe there was another day's wear from it. It seemed as if the activity of laundry was forever, thought NervousMan. Where was that shirt, he thought.
Turning on a light, NervousMan spied a piece of paper on the carpet, next to the light stand.
Pick it up and put it in the trash, he thought. But what was it?
NervousMan unfolded the piece of paper.
Oh, this was the check that he had gotten from The 59 Club contest that he had won. But it had been so long ago. Was it still good?
NervousMan squinted and looked at the fine print.
The date read: August 21st, 2007
and underneath this - This check is payable up to 20 months from date of issuance.
Let's see, thought NervousMan. April, May, June, July, August.... in 4 months it would have been 2 years! That's 24 months. So minus 4 months, cuz it's 4 months away... that's ... TODAY!
NervousMan looked around for his pants. He had to get to the bank before it closed. He had one hour to cash this check!
He looked again at the amount the money was for.
$59,000.00
NervousMan thought that must be a lot of money. It seemed like it was.
NervousMan felt nervous.
Quickly, he pulled on his shirt and pants, not even bothering to locate his underwear. I can bathe later, he thought. NervousMan hadn't bathed in two days.
Locking the door to his room, NervousMan walked as briskly as he could down the hall. His eyes squinted involuntarily at the lights in the hallway. His teeth felt on edge. NervousMan could feel the sock bunched up under his foot from his mismatched sock, but he did not stop to fix it. The bank was only 3 blocks away.
As NervousMan rode the elevator down, he was glad he was in it by himself. He probably didn't smell very good.
"I have my wallet?" NervousMan thought. He felt his back pocket again and pulled it out, making sure the check was still within.
Good, NervousMan thought, his thumb feeling the edge of the soft paper. Good.
The doors to the elevator opened with a sharp ding.
NervousMan saw a dour-faced lady standing by the door, waiting to use the car. Her right arm propping herself up with the use of a crutch, the kind that goes around the forearm.
"I'm sorry" NervousMan said at once. The woman scowled at him as he brushed past her and made his way outside.
The sun assaulted NervousMan's eyes, practically blinding him. He could feel a sneeze welling up inside.
Which way was the bank? From behind him, NervousMan heard laughter erupt and he felt momentarily a laughingstock. Which way was the bank?
NervousMan padded his way along the hard cement almost tripping over the curb. A car honked and NervousMan held up his hand as if to say 'thank you for stopping'. Still, NervousMan couldn't really see.
He walked on.
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