Don't Read This
I'm warning you - don't. I'm just thinking.

Although I never, ever wanted to work in a school I ended up working part time in a unique school for Native American students (developing and running a program for gifted art students) after I became ill with m.s., as it was something I could do and I needed a job. No, it didn't have health insurance until maybe ten years later when Tiff was principal, but it kept body and soul together for which I am grateful. Anyway, the interesting thing for me is that I had always considered myself entirely inadequate, the things I had mistakenly done or miserably failed to do resulting in unforgiveable culpability. As I worked with the children I realised that nothing they did could be unforgiveable. They were tiny children, for God's sake. It was quite healing, although I admit it sounds sort of stupid that I didn't know that before.

Recently I was thinking about how far back in time I'd have to go before I would be physically all right, and decided I'd have to go back prior to an accident I had when I was eight. Galloping downhill on what was to someone of my puny size an oversized horse, I fell off whilst hunting, going over a jump (specific type a 'chicken coop' which is an inverted V shape) and was trodden on. My horse obviously made his best attempt not to put all his weight on me and must've quickly shifted it, but my right ribcage was rendered concave, and remains that way. At eight one's bones must be malleable to a degree. The inadequacy of my supreme failure dogged me - well, still does to a degree - but just last week (slow, I know) I suddenly realised that although I couldn't see at all (I was frequently in trouble at school because I couldn't see) I didn't get my eyes checked and glasses prescribed until I was nine or so. My eyes are rotten, possibly not helped by having my nose perpetually in a book from age five on. So when I had this unforgiveable lapse at the age of eight I couldn't actually see anything. Relevant information.

A slow reveal - amazing. It's like someone says, 'I'll give you an orange for that pencil of yours,' but you refuse, and he says, 'I'll give you an orange AND a drawing tablet,' then 'An orange, a drawing tablet AND A PAIR OF SCISSORS,' then 'An orange, a drawing tablet, a pair of scissors, AND A FORD THUNDERBIRD.' At some point it becomes fun just to see how the ante will be raised. In this case it's like, 'I'll trade you 8-years-old for your feeling of guilt,' then 'I'll trade you 8-years-old, unable to see, etc. for your feeling of guilt.' Only the person trading is me, and I'm offering myself things. It's another type of weird that I'm the only one here - everyone else is dead and probably never gave it a thought anyway. It seems to spiral down to an infinitely small and dense black hole of meaningless guilt and habit. As well as a Ford Thunderbird I want a trip around the world. What am I offered?

Labels: Cogitation