My world needs many stimuli, I collect stimuli, I have always collected things all of my life. It started with football magazines, box cars and marbles, then I graduated to seven inch records and crusty TDK tapes with my favourite songs re-recorded on them at the optimum volume, stored, chaotically in old cardboard shoe boxes that were compartmentalised under my bed.
After that I had a love for books, for films, for ideas and the tangents of thought that they produced. I spent my time in the salt mines of tertiary education latching onto conversation about all of my collectables and they produced friendships and those friendships produced more stimuli on a scale that is immeasurable but that I (still) greedily need to propel me forward everyday.
Now more recently, I log air miles whenever I can, I run on treadmills and I log effort and that occasionally lends itself to finding clarity and exhausion.
The working day oftens brings with it the sterility of the ‘office’ and a series of frustrating experiences that necessitates a nightly dousing of its aura with a freedom that a little alcohol brings. Bottle stores have now become sacred places offering me a right of passage and liquefying my love of vodka, of beer, of wine and more recently of single malt whisky.
And even if there isn’t enough time to fully process and appreciate every aspect of all of these impulses, I like to surrounded by them and that’s the most important thing.
They have offered me a breadth of view even when my subject matter depth is as shallow as the children’s pool. I love children because they have this same compulsion, they need stimuli for the world to be complete, they search for it and they act on it. Some are precocious others are more sedate in their quest but they all sponge it up and when I am in observation of their behaviour I wish I was still more like a child and not stuck in my reality with all of my inhibiting mental heaviness.
Last night I was in my favourite coffee shop having a belated supper which comprised of a macchiato, an orange juice and a slice of pan forte. In front of me was a young father, to his right was his young son probably aged five and to his left was his mate and next to his friend was his young daughter, I think she could have been three years old. The friend was eating cous-cous and was talking to the girl, trying to persuade her to have some, to try, ‘how do you know you don’t like it if you don’t taste it?’
She took out her dummy (or pacifier) and said as loudly as she could, ‘Because I know, I don’t like it!’
The father was trying to explain the role of the assistant referee to his son as the football game between Cameroon and Tunisia came to an end. ‘That’s a throw-in, see he raised his flag.’
I’m like a child in that regard, I know what I don’t want even when I haven’t tried it, sometimes all that is required is a placeholder for the moment, the trying comes, when it comes.
I have in my latter years placed a far greater emphasis on trying, moving away from fixed positions and trying a few things but always in my own indirect way. People often complain about that but I have never been direct, I do know how to do it but direct behaviour provides tangible outcomes, either-or, and there is no fun in that because when you force an issue you know that and you miss out on the journey towards the consequence. Still being bold, sometimes is a good thing and embracing outcomes promptly is not necessarily a bad thing.
This afternoon, I am looking at three new books, a set of loose mp3 that I need to find the time to absorb and there is an evening’s stimulation to get through. All of this provides me with a crisis point, how to balance all of these impulses that are pinging. I generally just retreat, that’s the irony, I disappear away from the world into another world where I can order my thoughts and mend my spirit.
Running is wonderful for this, afternoon naps infinitely satisfying and a drive down a long road with a majestic mountain view in your line of sight. These are some of the activities that I need to indulge in to slow my intake down before I come bouncing out of that world into the company of friends and others.
I’m never sure what way Friday will swing, will it be socially mad and extravagant or will it be contained like that piece of Tupperware that neatly keeps my Emmentaler cheese fresh, it’s rare that both madness and containment are achieved. The nicest thing though that the day does bring are options and I love options almost as much as stimulation, and yes I do realise that there are more options than I care to admit to but Friday’s options after a working week are some of the most rewarding that await.
So what’s new: I have already told you about the Radio Dept.; there is a new Oishinbo out, ‘Pub Food’ which I don’t have yet; the stadium hosts it’s first game of football, no I shalt be going but I will be trying to make a dent in my new Andrea Camilleri novel, The Shape of Water, and I must get around to watching 500 Days of Summer if only for the Morrissey references.
And on that porous note here’s wishing you all a good weekend of much stimulation and unadulterated fun.
