Blink

The game we played as kids? An eye ball to eye ball fight, a contest to see who blinks first? I feel like I’m in the middle of one of those games right now. I have lost one too many rounds already, I can’t sit still, I have to blink when I have to. So what if I lose one round, I’ll exercise better restraint the next time, I keep telling myself.

How bad can it be anyways? I’m thinking.

Does blinking first mean, I’m not strong enough, no self control. Blasphemous.

Does it mean, I don’t care about winning, because blinking seems like a more important thing to do.

Does blinking so often make me an unworthy opponent.

I wonder, what happens if no one blinks at all?

That would be a rather uncomfortable situation to be in.

Who’ll blink first?

Faux Peacock

He had been in a foul mood all day, kicking up a storm, cussing his heart out. I had no idea, what it was that had him twisted in a knot.

Poor pup dopey had gotten kicked a few times already; the next kick and Shraaz would lose a chunk of his foot. I was very sure. Any more cussing and a snapped head, that’s what he would have. Of that I was doubly sure.

Shraaz went to the cupboard, it had been in the family through many generations, seen many a skeletons. When one has lived so long, nothing really ever shocks. He pulled out an old tin box, it held candy once, the fading print last of its memories of better, sweeter days. Shraaz now pulled out a tuft of fuzz, a five strand hair piece. It looked like something the cat brought in. It was his prized possession. The men in his family, up until four generations before him had worn the bit with great pride. It had seen better days, days when the strands were many more.

With his preciousness held gently in the palm of his hands, Shraaz pulled out a can of silver spray. Like an artist working on his masterpiece, he sprayed across the strands with utmost precision. Out came the tube of glue , “ Stick ‘em up Pardner”, the energies looked like they were brightening up, all ready to cut through the gloom set by the Shraaz-ness all morning.

The glue went onto the fuzz... he slapped it onto his scantily clad head. The foul mood was all magically gone. The furry silver crown had brought out the peacock in Shraaz. With his silver fringe, the shining glory, he strutted around in circles, arrogance dripping all over.

It was a difficult choice, didn’t quite know what I liked better, his crass or the royal, pain in the rear end arrogant version.

Shraaz was in all surety the last who would use the head piece.

A silver crown is all that’s required to change the drama? A piece of magic ... did it do the exact same thing five generations in a row?

How can a harmless piece of nothing become a piece of program so vital to ones existence? I wonder... I wonder about my own program peacock, that vestigial bit of my psyche which has overstayed its visit. Time for the faux peacock hunt!

Peacock Man by John Coulthart

Day of the Ogre

Aaargh! So the anti hero is back. For all the excitement over brilliance, and the moment of epiphany when everything made sense, the day after has been the day of the ogre. Too many questions. Demand for specifics. Trend Reports. Analysis. Blah!

“You are headed for brilliance”, that’s great! Care to explain what this brilliance is all about?

Now only if I could explain brilliance to the buffoon.

If I could I would.

I cannot. It’s personal. I decide I don’t want to explain. I don’t want to explain it to the alter ego which is me and I don’t want to explain to anyone else who doesn’t get it.

My buffoon is going nowhere, it will hang around for a while, sulk in some corner hoping for an answer, and head out to find another raw nerve to trigger. The others who aren’t restricted within the confines of my cranial cavity will also stick around or go. Such is life.

And that’s the reason why I work alone.

The line is worn thin from all that use, and I finally get it. A different story, for a different day. For now let’s just assume I am one of those superhero snoots who don’t believe in sidekicks.

My life has turned into an eternal dance – 3 steps forward, 2 steps back, half a step forward, back. Every time I holler in joy for a cipher cracked, the course produces a new set of codes. The closer I get to the treasure, the obstacles bigger, tower over me. These supposedly bigger obstacles however, are not very menacing any more. It’s either a purpose, now not too far from being unveiled that numbs out the fear and pushes me to march on, or I have played this game too long, worked my way through the glitches and the maze is now just a predictable set of pieces that instinctively fit in when one has worked on putting them together, too often, for too long.

Faith and a few tricks is all you need to get through. An ogre who plays devil’s advocate is a nice pet; mine does the Polly parrot perched on my shoulder calling for crackers and some things inane, as I find my way through the last of the patches on my eye.

Sometimes he’s your plain old defence mechanism, the other times an echo of the self desecrating rouge program designed to disillusion you, but most of the times he is an alternate point of view, one that keeps you from stagnating, brings you closer to you.

End of the Maze. End of the story you think? This one maybe. But surely the beginning of a newer , more exciting one. Race you to the cup .... see where the portkey takes us this time.