Let’s Face It

What’s the difference between not being politically correct and being unconscionable? I mean, don’t we all have our little points of vulnerability here?  I mean it’s okay for me to laugh at being old, but…you?

 It’s obviously the pits if one should get a laugh  at someone developmentally delayed–like when  my Downs daughter, decked out to the wazoo in a great variety of Ohio State University paraphernalia chatted happily with the Ohio University’s new president at the International Street Fair…and then later helped carry the groceries from Krogers and put them in the wrong but identical car and even took out their trash.  I’ve laughed at myself all my life but I guess thagt’s to be expected, given who I am. But honestly, I know that much of the time it’s outrageous that I’m laughing instead of being appalled.

Seriously, I suspect that I was born with a tad of Tourette’s Syndrome. My father had it when he drank cheap wine and they say his father had it, but I was too young to notice.

I can’t show you the quirks I’ve overcome because I may start them  up again–it’s sufficiently dangerous to even recall them–but I do remember sitting in the congregation of the okld Methodist church of my childhood struggling with myself and the Devil not to shout out obscenities (though at that age they would have had minimal effect).

Although it’s not funny, for years I quietly and invisibly traced around the edge of things that fell within my puriew–both with my eyes and correspondingly, without noticeable movement, with a finger. Maybe all the foregoing is an apology for having laughed so hard and long at an article in the New Yorker–I think it was–about a gathering or convention or something–of folks with Tourette’s. I don’t believe the article was meant to be funny (how could it be?)  and though I’ve tried to find it again on Google to no avail, I’ve decided that’s the pits for me. There now, you know, you dingaling!   (Stronger word deleted  by blog editor).

 

 

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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