Trivial Tales of Everyday Madness: 9

8/14/2019 Trivial Tales of Everyday Madness: 9

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Profane Exegesis/Trivial Tales of Everyday Madness: 9

Robert K Hogg

Id many explorations of that same tenement. The pigeons nested in and on thegap between the top of cupboards and the ceiling. It was easy to climb up and

see if there were any eggs. Often the adult would fly out as I approached it.

One time there was an older fledging in one nest so I watched it for a bit as it

watched me back, then predictably I had to try and stroke it, but it was hostile

of course and defended itself by flicking its wing at me and pecking at me. Its

helplessness only made it seem all the more poignant and touching. I could say

cute but that would be too superficial.

I found this so engrossingly entertaining and interesting that I told myself Iwas playing with it when in reality I was only tormenting it as it was a deadly

series business to the poor creature. I went on so long, letting it attack me,

thats the parent bird its mother came back twice or thrice before scooting off

mid-landing when it saw I was still there. Some days later I went to check on it

again to see if it had flown the nest, but when I climbed up I was hit by a

stench; the bird was dead in the nest, its mother having deserted it in fright. I

always had to overdo things.

One afternoon, Alex and me walked the road bridge to Tayport across thewater in Fife. The countryside was on the left of the end of the bridge. We

could see it n the distance from Dundee. The walk along the footpath across the

bridge had seemed interminable, Tayport getting closer far too slowly. The

walk across was all of a mile and a half. We walked along on the right side of

the road by the tufts of grass until we saw a wooden house in the distance. I

couldnt imagine why anyone would build and live in a house standing by itself.

We walked cautiously up the path that led to it, noticing the corners of the

eaves of the wooden patio that surrounded the entrance and that promised there

might be small birds nesting there. We farted around for a while, looking for a

way to get up and looking around a large grassy area to the side that passed for

a garden. After a while we assumed there was no-one home and peered through

the windows at the front. There were no curtains, front and back. It looked

sparsely decorated but it was obvious someone lived there; a large chair and

settee, and a carpet covering most of the wooden floor. Maybe The

Woodentops lived here a popular kids programme from some years before.

We werent interested in trying to get in or anything like that, but were

happy we could explore the place at leisure. The thought of finding some rareeggs in those eaves was tantalising. Swifts or Swallows. I could still recall a

kid shouting out that a bird he had spotted was a Yellowhammer when we were


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surveying the big old wall by the tenements, looking for the tell-tale holes

where the House Martins nested. The thought of finding a nest with the eggs of

a Yellowhammer was equivalent to stumbling upon the Holy Grail extremely

unlikely. There was an indescribable thrill in catching a glimpse of what I took

to be a relatively rare bird. A moment captured in time; just you and the bird, in

that instance. I had much the same feeling when I saw a Goldfinch or even aBlue-tit. There was also the Chaffinch, a bird with a distinctive plumage. And

Robins made me think of postcards and Xmas.

There was no way I was going to get up those round wooden pillars to get

to the eaves, and Alex was less interested, so I gave up with the conviction we

were letting a valuable prize slip out of our grasp or mine and walked

further on along the main road until we reached a low concrete wall after which

was an open muddy driveway. As we had lived in town all our lives it was all

dashedly interesting and all the more so as there was never anyone aroundexcept passing cars. On the other side was the long fence that blocked off the

shore. But it was to pastures new and unexplored by us that drew us on. The

wide drive went around in an arc, which we followed. Beyond it another fence,

then the fields we had seen in the distance from the bridge and all our lives,

when in the centre of town. Exploring it with parents or school would never

have been the same, even if they had the time or inclination. One didnt have

adventures under supervision. We wandered into an area where there was a

large shed or outhouse one of those, but we were more interested in getting

across those fields and into that entire bushy and hilly wilderness we could seebeyond them. That would really be something.

We found a good spot to clamber over the wires of the fence, while I

marvelled that we were now wading through the fields and Hollyhocks and God

knew what else those plants were we came to and passed by after a man

shouted after us shortly after we had climbed over the fence. Perhaps he had

been in the outhouse. We ran off of course, as thats what kids did as we were

more worried about what he might do if he got his hands on us. We kept up a

good humour all the way as we always did, while remarking on whatever

caught our interest. I would give my eye-teeth now to be able to see that, if I

knew what eye-teeth were and had any, in all its colour and freshness and to see

and hear exactly what we said. But that would still never be the same as feeling

exactly as I felt at the time and knowing what I was thinking. Did I ever once

think of L and what she might be doing right then, or even think of what it

might be like to have her there too, meaning be there with her alone? I cant

recall. I was certainly capable of forgetting her very existence for long periods

of time in the experience of the new. I was still very young I knew, and the

future stretched ahead in the distance. There was never a question of urgency.Life could be good when people werent being stupid and with people like her

in the world, I felt however obscurely that life must mean well by me and her


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too, as well as Alex. She liked me. If I was unhappy, she would be unhappy

too, I was sure, and if life meant well by her, and it seemed to, then it surely

meant well by me too, whatever appearances to the contrary. The farmer or

cowherd or whatever he was had been only a temporary blip in our reverie or

mine. I was free; there was us and the world, however partial, but it was an

aspect of the whole and I knew that in some real way, Lynne was with us if onlythrough the act of my thinking of her, and she was always there in my mind

whether I was consciously thinking of her or not. The sadness lay in knowing

that she wasnt literally there if I ever specifically thought of her at all, but on

an unconscious level I shared everything with her as she was a part of my world

now, and there, among the wheat or hay and midges I felt I was exactly where I

wanted to be. The rest of the world I knew was on hold.

It seemed natural to head towards a large promontory in the distance as it

was the most dominant feature of the landscape, so that made it the mostinteresting to us. The occasional insects buzzed and flit by us. The air was

balmy and pleasant with the warmth of the sun. There was no urgency, only the

vaguest sense of time, though there was an unspoken awareness between us that

we kept track of the distance we had come and the difficulty of the terrain or

otherwise, always keeping in mind that we had to make a journey of the same

length back. Neither of us would want to find ourselves out here in the dark.

Even together it would still be an unthinkable prospect. And wed be hungry

long before then. But right now we barely had a care in the world.

There was a sudden fluttering ahead of us and a largish dull plumaged bird

or two flew out from ahead of us. I took them to be Corncrakes. Stupidly, if

innocently, we kept walking in the same direction, or perhaps we forgot about it

and it didnt matter where we walked and what happened shortly after was pure

chance, if there is such a thing, but to my amazement, there was a sudden and

frantic rusting under my foot. A moment of mute surprise and I remembered to

lift my foot. There was a small bird squirming in on the ground, clearly a

nestling. I bent down and picked it up. It filled my whole hand. It was gasping

for breath, choking. It was obvious my weight had broken its neck. We stood

and looked at it for some seconds as I wondered what to do. It was obviously

suffering but I was too squeamish to put it out of its misery. Alex, having

grasped the situation immediately said Give me it. Ill kill it quickly, but I was

too wimpy for that too, and so stood there feeling foolish and terribly guilty, my

ineffectualness and inability to make a decision only compounding the guilt I

felt, as if Id murdered something precious. And I felt I had. That was how I

felt about birds. Fortunately it choked away its last breath quite quickly, and

my dilemma, the crisis of bad conscience was over. There was nothing else tobe done, or done with it. Id never felt sentimental over bodies. It was the life

they seemed to contain that was important, though I was sure in some obscure


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way that it wasnt the body or even the parent that generated the life, but the

Creator, the thought of which succeeded in making me only feel more guilty. I

tossed it into the reeds in dejection that such an event had occurred. Boys

didnt bury birds. That would have been twee and silly. Girlstuff. I was Just

William having my little Boys Own Adventure.

But once again reality had stepped in, no pun intended, and turned mybookish lifeworld on its head. As someone had said, life was nasty, brutish, and

short. Or could be if you stand on a creatures head and I was the brute, the

clumsy Klutz that did it. Even out here it was as if my mother was right all

along. I couldnt escape myself, as that bird couldnt escape me. I was the

bringer of death and pestilence to that small nest. The parent bird would be

back only to discover its chick, its offspring either gone or dead, and I was the

cause of its grief and I had no doubt it had feelings. If birds were capable of

feeling protective then they were capable of feeling loss. It was silly to dismissit as a blind evolutionary urge, typical of the arrogance of conceited, over

intellectual adults, scientists. One may as well say the same of any mother. I

knew they were intelligent, sentient creatures. I didnt believe the sense of

regret I felt was only all about me. We were both involved. I could feel I had

betrayed them, if accidentally. But I felt guilty in any case, whether

conditioned to feel that way or not. If I saw them as robotic as insects, then no

doubt Id have felt next to nothing.

It was an unfortunate little incident. but there was nothing to be done; it

was a an aspect of nature and of our unfamiliarity with the terrain. A couple ofclueless city kids, stumbling ahead, feet first, disturbing the delicate balance of

nature and all of that. Or not affecting it in the least in the grand scheme of

things, and if so, then guilt was meaningless. Accidents will happen. But at the

back of my mind was the lurking thought that on some level, its a life for a life,

or there would at least have to be some kind of payback for bringing murder

and mayhem to the land. I hadnt seen much of nature, red in tooth and claw.

There was Billys dad next door to us who caught and killed rabbits by sending

his ferrets down rabbit holes. This seemed needlessly and unutterably cruel to

me. He would skin them by his shed in the back green, an almost equally

repulsive process.

Having been brought up on Disney and Snow White and talking animals I

was used to everything pre-packaged. I preferred to avoid the butchers, though

I liked the smell of fish shops, but even then I couldnt understand why anyone

bought anything in the summer as I watched flies hopping from fish to fish.

Even cats wont touch their food when flies have been on it. A memory of my

granddad when he lived off the Perth Road and before he came to stay with us

before he got married again. Our one and only visit that I can recall. Mymother, too myopically provincial minded preferred to be on home ground as

then she was in control of her little domain and us me. His room was bright


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and summery and I could see his bed in the small room off the sitting-room.

My granddads little world. I wish I lived there too or had a little flat like it to

myself and we could invite each other to dinner whenever we felt like it.

My mothers triviality and small-mindedness had a knack of colouring

every occasion, bringing it down. And this was to be something different. He

was cooking a rabbit in a largish pot. There it was on his stove. He had acooker, just like we did. My mother didnt rule the world after all. There was

life beyond the tyranny. I always felt comfortable, almost happy when my

granddad was around. And here, she was obliged to keep her emotional

indulgence in check. We sat around the table expectantly, my brother and me,

and then my granddad served the rabbit. It tasted pretty much like chicken I

thought. If I felt remotely squeamish I would never give my mother the

satisfaction. I was on Granddads side on home ground. Far be it from me to

add my puny weight to boorish lack of appreciation. I loved the man. An houror two there was like a glimpse of another way of being. One day One day. I

wouldnt be a kid forever. Maybe my mother said it was okay, but she

preferred chicken. Maybe she said she didnt think she was going to enjoy it

but it was better than she thought it would be. Perhaps she even said it wasnt

bad, but she couldnt eat it very often, implying that would be the first and last

time. Maybe she never said anything of the kind. What I do know is that it

wasnt customary to sit there and say nothing. And no doubt I was sorry when

we had to leave. Maybe next day was a Sunday I would have to myself. I can

as likely picture my mother emphasising she had to get us back as it was askale day as if she could care less about my education, or even being on time.

But there was my brother to think about. And now, here in Tayport, barely

more than a mile from the roadway, we were as good as in the middle of

nowhere. For the time being, the world was ours. We were beholden to no one.

The past was gone, the future an open book. There would surely be no

repercussion for my accidental taking of the life of one of the Creators

creations. The unspoken thought in dread somewhere in the back of my mind.

An eye for an eye. A philosophy I myself subscribed to if I could. If I didnt

forget what I thought I was supposed to be enraged over. The hill, the mound,

whatever it was was larger than I had pictured it would be. It was covered in

bushes and plants and trees, all the way to the top. This was going to be

interesting.

There was no sign of any birds or nests in the bushes as we made our way

up. Still wincing from a kind of sickly resentment of myself I dont think Id

have given any more than a perfunctory examination, if that. As fit as two

fiddles and about as loud, we soon reached the summit. The ground consistedof flat earth. As curious to see what was on the other side, I walked and slid

down first while grasping the branched of the trees growing at an angle on the


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steep side. It was looking quite precarious, with the tops of firs showing up

through the haze of leaves and limbs. Theres a wasps nest here! Alex said as

he began scrambling back up the bank. I hadnt noticed a single wasp. Now

that he had pointed it out I saw they were flying slowly and silently around and

in front of me. It was an unnerving sight. And just as I noticed this I heard a

buzzing and lowering my head in stifled alarm, saw there was a wasp hoveringas it flew slowly out of the top of the collar of my t-shirt. I felt a twinge of

relief at the simultaneous realisation that it hadnt stung me. A miracle. Just at

that moment I felt a stinging pain in my neck, similar to the sharp jab of the

dentist in my gum when he or she gave me the freeze as we imaginatively

called it. Only, this pain wasnt going away. In a matter of seconds it came to

an unbearable crescendo. Eck, Im in agony, I shouted. I was in my own

separate little world of private pain, like some surreal dream. It was as if

someone had taken a long needle of indefinite length and was slowly pushing itinto my neck. If someone stuck a pin in you or a tack or you sat or stepped on

one the pain was sharp, but temporary. It would stop. This was something akin

to Dantes 7th circle of Hell. I considered the possibility I could die, or if I was

lucky, lose consciousness and tumble to a prickly death or even more

unpleasant injury in the unexplored depths at the end of the slope I was

precariously keeping my balance on, looking up at the branches and sky above

me, as indifferent or as malevolently inclined as I might imagine them to be and

as they would be as if I had collapsed and rolled to my uncertain fate, careening

off trunks and stumps and clods of earth, attracting and perhaps flattening awasp or two in the process, or if my luck was really in, Id die in agony from

more stings before I reached the top of those furs or hit any nettles below. The

pain began to ease off. Alex seemed curiously indifferent I felt.

But it was only due to the difficulty of conveying the extent of the

nightmare I had been through in the space of some seconds. I was convinced it

wasnt any exaggeration to say we had, for that period of time, been in two

different worlds. And why would I want him to share it? was my unspoken

realisation. And why me rather than he? I cursed at the arbitrariness of it,

knowing on some obscure level that it was as if it separated us that if I had been

given the choice as to whether I should experience it or he should, it could be

an impossible decision to make. The anticipation alone might send me haywire.

Thankfully it was now over. We walked back down a path of sorts from the

side, unconsciously avoiding any clumps of foliage. Alex had me stop for a

moment. Half its arse is still sticking out of your neck. No wonder it had

hurt. Id thought only bees were supposed to leave the sting. Maybe this one

had been a bit overzealous. Or had panicked and this was the wasps death-

sting. Yes, maybe it really had tried to kill me through leaving its arse andsting in me. I could picture it still pumping away as the wasp fell dead to the

earth, the nasty little bastard. I could only be thankful they werent two feet


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long say, as in Land Of The Giants. One of the scariest scenarios of all, the

most terminally unsettling, had been the predicament of The Incredible

Shrinking Man. Not only was his unfathomable future to shrink into oblivion

but he had to flee from the family cat in the process as well as kill a giant

spider with a pin. I think he escaped for the cat by hiding in a childs doll

house. Maybe he stabbed its paw with a pin too. I would. And what weird andfuturistic monsters would he have to deal with on the atomic level? That much

I knew. And how would he feed himself and sleep andAnd what about the

subatomic level? What happened then? In theory, he could go on shrinking

forever. Atoms cold be the size of planets, or a universe. The mind boggled. It

was about as unpleasant a prospect as an infinity of pain the religionists, the

Christians were so keen to remind us kids of it we stepped out of line or at least

thats how it seemed to me.

I just couldnt get my head around the Jesus thing at all. A vivid image ofmyself, walking along the High Street, contemplating this, in a hazy, pea soup

of thought kind of way, groping for a realization, an insight if I could, aware

that there was a centuries, millennia length of tradition and conviction revolving

around this, nay that it hinged on it. But the more I thought about it the more

illogical and cruel it seemed; that a benevolent God would send his Son his

only Son, whatever that meant to die on our behalf. As I understood it, that

meant he died in place of us. This meant that for some reason, God wanted to

kill me me with all my pleasure from reading and love for L when I ever

thought about it and my friends too along with the bullies and other boors andignoramuses. That seemed a little harsh even for them. Even for my mother.

And again for me, however much fun Alex and me had had through our stealing

sprees at the Woolworths in this same High Street, pulling out and examining

and chortling and drooling over our spoils at the back of the building. Paints

and glue and paperbacks and sweets in my case along with the

incomprehensibly odd choices on his part pen-knifes and wallets and cigarette

lighters, but all the predictable paraphernalia of the kind of thing one would

expect boys to want and accumulate, only we couldnt afford it and neither

could our parents and neither would they have seen the point of it all, but to me

it was like manna from heaven. I was sure God would understand, if I ever let

Him float into mind.

And anyway I could as quickly shove Him out, or if not, then distract

myself, often with more goodies. It was a bit of a comedown, a bit of a drag to

think that Jesus may have died for this; that he had went through the agony of

the cross and humiliation in order for us me to carry on willy-nilly, and hang

the consequences and to hell with my conscience. The fact was I didnt believe

it. I knew it had taken place as a historical event but I was sure God had betterthings to concern himself with than an excitable and harmlessly avaricious kid

helping himself to whatever interested him. It was as clear as day they were


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available, there to make money. That much of it was what intensely attracted

and interested me was either serendipity or brilliant insight in the manufacturers

part and as for books, such as the volumes of Tarzan I helped myself to, I knew

this was quality goods however cheaply made and packaged. It was literature

and the fact was my mother didnt give a toss about my interest in that.

Moreover it was more accurate to say she resented it. I didnt share mythoughts on religion and God with anyone either. Those on charge believed

what they believed and I already knew they could be inconsistent and childish

and hypocritical. It seemed natural to mull things over myself and come to my

own conclusions. And it seemed equally ridiculous or at least very unlikely that

anyone could be condemned for eternity to the flames the, er, fiery pits of

hell. That this was as real a prospect as was the possibility of going to heaven,

itself as much of a myth to me. Yet there had been moments

It didnt seem natural to think of God on that way. And if he could kill thegood, the best of us as I knew Jesus represented, then how come the bad and the

indifferent escaped that fate? How come none of them were chosen to take on

the sins of the rest of us and might even escape such a painful death (though

hell might or would get them in the end)? What was the point of being good if

it made you a marked man even in Gods eyes? the very Being one might

expect to be pleased about it and give one ones just reward for it. In short, who

the hell would want to be Jesus? And hadnt he even asked for this cup to be

taken away from me during the agony in the Garden? But apparently he didnt

really mean it or it was only a moment of terminal discouragement and he sooncame back to his senses and awareness of his mission. A moment of temporary

insanity in a sane scenario, apparently. I would call it a moment of sanity in a

surely insane scenario. Faced with the choice of that wasp-sting I would let the

world go to hell in a hand basket and Jesus along with it. I would consider the

same over a sufficiently excruciating toothache. At least the nails through my

hands and feet might prove a distraction.

Nope, the whole thing was circular. You could go around and around with

this until the cows came home or forever. For anyone to die to save me made

no logical sense. It would mean the world was based on a crazy premise and

God was just as mad. Maybe the religionists, the men in frocks, the Churches,

my teachers at school had it all wrong. They were perfectly, even absurdly

capable of getting the wrong end of the stick at the best of times and if good

created the world and saw that it was good, why would he want to kill us? Oh

he didnt, he only killed the best guy to save us? and anyway, he was

resurrected. Right, so having now taken on board all our sins for himself, he

and we are now magically purified and will live forever like him in immortalbodies forever? as long as were good, otherwise well go to the fiery scaly

place where all is great gnashing of teeth and where we were all destined to go


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anyway before Christ came along, so really, little has changed. In fact one

might assume that as Jesus has taken on all our sins it might not even matter

what we do if we are now innocent and sinless forever, but hey, I can

understand that that would only make me feel guilty in the long run, but what I

dont understand along with the rest of the above is how a good guy has to

go through real pain and real death to come out the other side in a nowimmortal body while others as yet whether mad or bad or indifferent/lukewarm

will still screw up for all eternity.

Surely a more reasonable and sane and manageable scenario would be if it

was a learning process? If Jesus has already demonstrated sins are not eternal

as he now lives forever then why would that apply only to him and not for the

rest of us, because, lets face it, he can make mistakes too if the agony in the

garden is anything to go by and where would we be then? But Good always

prevails? Presumably thats why he was Chosen to begin with. Its all veryconvenient and circular. I still think its a case of either/or. Either we are saved

or were not. Its more likely we do as much harm to ourselves as to others.

And that mistakes are not irredeemable sins but a learning process on the

journey to immortality, but Jesus has demonstrated already that immortality is

ours as it always was for him, as was ultimate sinlessness. Youd think. And

now he lives in some new or ethereal superbody. Wherever he lives, on

whatever plane he exists, hes now the literal equivalent of Superman. Gods

goal is, apparently, to create a race of Superman, Super beingsssss on the way to

eternity to live as Superdupermen and Superduperwoalongggmg with ourfavourite Superduperdogs and parrots and the rest while the

Supersinnsquirmuirm in hell for all eternity too meaning theres also two

eternitys -which again makes no sense to me as eternity is surely one a

whole, indivisible, unending, forever; thats what it means. It it isnt eternity

then its something else. Hell perhaps. And so it goes. Eventually one comes

to suspect all it is is a pile of Superhorseshit. A pile of superpish.

That people dont really know what theyre talking about, least of all the

people whove set themselves up to be and be seen as the authorities on the

subject. That its all a crock to keep the sense of sin, of believing oneself to be

a bad person, alive . That it isnt what God has decreed at all. Theyve made it

all up themselves. Its myth, a fairy story to keep eternity from us and so we

see God as the epitome of fear and victimisation and Jesus as a hateful figure

for what he seems to demand of us sacrifice and pain. Thanks but no thanks.

Ive pain enough as it is. It seems to me the traditional Christian view of

salvation has much in common with the Nazis. Its all about elites and

indestructible bodies or as near as. And finding scapegoats in order to justify it.

The damned and the saved, the guilty and the innocent, the good and the bad.And the bad is whomever and whatever doesnt fit their definition of salvation

and reality. Its all about being a good body. And just like God, that means


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killing other bodies on Gods behalf for their own good; to save them from and

for themselves. Whatever that means. I

ts ironic; now I can think of Mrs McDonald at school, grabbing the Pow!

comic from my hand. I wasnt reading it but giving it a loving once over before

I put it back in my bag, relishing the prospect of Spideys epic battle with thedreaded Dr Doom. It was issue number 10. She had raced up the isle between

our desks and now she glared at it in undisguised disgust and contempt. What

is this garbage? She went back to her place in front of the blackboard, but first

tossing the priceless artefact into the waste-paper basket. I was outraged:

dumbfounded; speechless. I was nine or ten -and sorely tempted to defy her by

taking it out of the basket on the sly when the class finished. I liked her or

thought I did. I generally assumed most people were sane and meant well by

me, until proven otherwise. What wasnt to like? She had once said God iseverywhere. In the company of my classmates I was inclined to be flippant. I

wanted to ask if God is sitting on my earlobe but I knew she wouldnt see the

genuinely puzzled enquiry behind the humour and she was a bit too zealous

with the old two leather fingers she kept in her desk. I seemed to be her

favourite on that account.

But it was a genuinely thought-provoking observation on her part Id

thought. I wished we could have discussed it further. If I was less bashful and

felt less ambivalent towards her I might have broached the subject if I could get

a moment alone with her. Now I was feeling even less ambiguous about her.The woman was clearly a cretin. One didnt open oneself up to people to

creatures - such as these. I chickened out of challenging her authority head on

by consoling myself with the thought I would find buy another copy as soon as

possible before it sold out. I think I forgot. Out of side out of mind. The sense

of loss and anger came back to mind for years. I had been a hairs breadth to

saying the ten year old equivalent of fuck it (Fuck it, perhaps) and taking the

comic back anyway. I felt she was unjustifiably interfering with my life. It had

cost money. It was separate from school. I had been only glancing at it in

passing.

The woman was an unimaginative, interfering, tyrannical busybody. I

might not have the vocabulary to articulate it but I knew it was the case. One

didnt reason with such people, one acted. Chalk up another inexplicable attack

on a teacher meaning she manhandles me in the act of taking what I owned

and what was owed me. Only I didnt as I say. I repressed it. And began

wearing a big Batman insignia badge I picked up somewhere, perhaps a free

gift in another comic. It didnt distract me from lessons and it served to remind

her of my interests along with her grievous sin. As unintentional on my part asit was unconscious. I even took to doing drawings in class of Batman, done at

breakneck speed for a penny or two to classmates. I was the small centre of the


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cyclone. She didnt seem to mind. Talent always perplexed and even awed the

plebs I think. They were obliged to think of the possibility there might really be

a higher authority than their own and its light flickered through me. I wonder

whatever happened to Spider-man and Doctor Doom and Batman and the rest

Random memory: of wandering up the stairs of one of the old flats near us,with the spiral stairs and the concrete platforms with railings on the other side

pletties. There were a couple of girls I liked and that were pretty that lived

there, a bit younger than me. Maybe they would be around. I could say I was

looking for Jackie, an older kid who lived there, though I didnt know him. In

our territorial way, he was the enemy. As I came to their floor or plettie and

walked along to their flat or the one I thought might be their flat I wasnt quite

sure, I noticed their door was open or what was perhaps their door. I peered

through the window.There didnt seem to be anyone around, so stupidly, I went in. Curiosity

overcame the natural fear of discovery if they anyone came back unexpectedly.

There wasnt much to see. Maybe at the back of my mind was the thought of

finding something worth having but as I knew them, however loosely and the

fact they were girls gave the situation a romantic aura that made the temptation

less likely. I never stole from friends. It wasnt even a conscious decision. It

wasnt done. One stole from adults, the establishment, the system -though I

never thought of it in those terms either. A small, shabby looking flat. They

had nothing. Just like us, only they had less. I noticed a wasp silently buzzingthe window from the inside. Now I was wary, though the sting episode was in

the future. It was time to go. Or distract myself with the wasp.

I found a newspaper and swatted it into the basin of water in the sink. In

the casually sadistic way of boys, I wanted to see how it might react, what it

would do. And the water would immobilise its wings, though when I lifted it

out with a spoon I still felt an irrational apprehension as if it might suddenly fly

at me. What was fascinating was to be able to examine it at leisure. Its head

looked as if it had an actual face, though I knew it was only the pattern it had,

yet it looked like some malevolent alien from another

planet.

Its sheer otherness was creepily alien. I could identity with animals and

birds easily enough but /I just couldnt imagine what it must be like to be a

wasp. It seemed more akin to a robot of some kind. Gleefully amoral, without

conscience of any kind. And with a sting of unknown potentiality I had yet to

experience. Unpleasant and ugly, they really had nothing to recommend them.

But I was still reluctant to drown it or even kill it in any other way, so I let it go

and left before anyone came back. I seemed to live in a world in my head. Itwas as if I was attracted to and curious about things no one paid the least

attention to, though it was obvious enough they did as I could attain books on


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almost any subject that interested me. No doubt I had perused some large

colour drawing of a wasp and its attendant thorax and other body parts. The

stark reality was far more alien and unsettling for that reason. My unspoken

and unarticulated question was why would God, if he existed at all, create such

a pointlessly nasty creature?

Yet I could feel something for it as it existed. Like myself, I could safely

assume it couldnt recall asking to be born or had any idea why it existed. It as

the victim of its own nature. Why should I compound that by victimising it

further. It seemed to be the predator but this line of thought offered a subtly

different way of perceiving it. Now, as with flies, Ill kill them as soon as look

at them. Treat them like a murderous, psychopathic crazy person. Put them out

of commission withdispassionate prejudice. That was weird. I just had the

sudden sensation of a slight pressure on my neck just above the collar of thisheavy black Nike pullover Im wearing. A sudden if slight attack of the willies.

It genuinely felt as if there was an insect on me. Maybe there was. Talk about

the power of suggestion.

Oddly enough, the thought of wasps has become almost synonymous with

the memory of the same old flats with pletties that we lived up until when I was

six or seven. Left alone, I watched an episode of the old black and white Outer

Limits series. This one featured alien spiders that talked and ran amok in the

town, running all over the ceiling, as I recall. Needless to say I had never seenanything like it. With their little talking faces, I watched in subdued horror and

much fascination.

At five or six I knew it was only a TV show but it was literally the stuff of

nightmares. The world was a far more interesting place with these sort of

scenarios in it. Anything was possible. Pigs might fly, but that would be far too

mundane. In retrospect I see now that that was what the wasps face reminded

me of. Some cold, alien intelligence. Only the wasp was as dull and robotic as

it could be quick and unpredictable, like any insect. For some reason I had

always assumed those talking spiders were from Mars.

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Trivial Tales of Everyday Madness: 9