Author Archives: scamper

Artful Redistribution

By scamper · Posted in whimsy

entry_128I’ve been redistributing the world around me piece by piece. The idea first occurred to me as a practical solution to the observation that I simply owned too many things. But for one as reclusive as I, the practice of divesting from material goods is fraught with difficulty, particularly when faced with the possibility of having to interact with people. Yet how is one to one rid oneself of extraneous possessions without resorting to arson?

The answer was deceptively simple: I began leaving things behind. Each time I left my fortified penthouse suite I would bring along one item from my world, be it a small ceramic penguin given to me as a birthday present, a Babylonian battery I discovered at the back of my cupboard, or blood encrusted shackles hanging from my bedposts which I can’t remember how they got there at all.

Bear in mind that a certain level of artistry is required for this practice. For the most part these things, though they be redundant, obsolete, vestigial, do hold a certain sentimental value. They represent historical mementos, and therefore cannot simply be cast into alleyways or lobbed through the window of my annoying neighbor. To be sure, their destinations must be chosen swiftly, but thoughtfully. And this is precisely how I conducted my redistribution.

Each time I attended a restaurant or party, every time I visited an acquaintance or loved one, I would wait until I had a moment of privacy, and then I would remove a single object from my pocket and place it with great finesse. Initially I found ways to mingle my objects inconspicuously among stands of like objects. Or I would position them above or beyond the normal range of sight, on the tops of bookshelves, or just behind the toilet. But as I meditated on my actions I realized that I was neither paying proper respect to the objects, nor to their new environments. And furthermore, simple placement was not befitting my artistic station.

So I sought to refine my methodology. It was my belief that, with the proper skill, I should be able to camouflage my placements solely through a fine understanding of interior design. And, after a number of outright failures, including at least one instance of obviously naive complimentary juxtaposition, I began finally to master artful redistribution. In gaining an appreciation for the gestalt of a room, I discovered that I could drastically improve its appeal–molding its feng shui like so much warm clay–by the mere addition of a single well-placed heirloom.

Eventually I was creating soul-replenishing wombs of well-being wherever my meanderings took me, and people began to invite me to still more public outings. They were at a loss to describe why they felt so whole and fulfilled in my presence, but these outings presented me with the chance to hone my craft, and though my own home had grown almost empty in under a year, this didn’t prove to be a setback.

At about the same time my skill peaked, I found myself experiencing occasional, yet overpowering, kleptomaniacal tendencies. Every now and again I would redistribute the possessions of others rather than my own–but always with an eye on improving my surroundings. As my offenses grew in number, and as my desire for absolute discretion overshadowed all else, at heart my intentions remained pure. I felt a curious mix of shame and manifest destiny.

Now I find myself burdened both by conscience and by paraphernalia. My clothing, over time, has become a patchwork of cleverly constructed pockets, the better to conceal my displaced acquisitions. The ascetic in me is sickened by the jangling bulges that jut from my person like so many pilfered lesions. Indeed, it is perhaps ironic that I now possess more things than I ever have before, but I remain confident that I will be able to divest myself of it all, in time, once I have everything sorted out.

Economy of Movement

By scamper · Posted in thought, threat, work

entry_127Dear Gloria, your erratic vibrations are draining my very life force. The way you churn your lips as you whisper to yourself is–I assure you–unnecessary, unless it is your conscious desire to amass the impressive volume of foam spittle at the corners of your mouth, which I witness daily. Also, though the industrial cleaning agent you wear for perfume makes your eyes water without abatement, I hope that, each day anew, you’ll reconsider your decision to carry around a blotter kleenex that you nervously crumple, and rumple, and work, and work, and work, and work, until little balls of ruined fluff drop like silken spider eggs from between your palsied fingers. I hope you will not think me cruel for mentioning these things, but I’ve found that the way you obsessively touch anything that comes to your attention–picking it up, putting it down, moving it just slightly, or just touching it… touch… touch…–is stirring up a demon inside me whose intentions I am not yet entirely clear on.

It’s true that I have, lately, found my attentions focusing on the inefficiency with which people go about their daily routines. Let me be clear, Gloria: I refer here to basic movement. My eyes masked only by strategically lowered brows, I watch with smouldering contempt as these creatures exhibit themselves, obliviously inelegant, and ungainly to the point of being a threat to those around them. The frivolous motions they practice–the receptionist’s valley girl head wobble, the doorman’s extraneous facial expressions, the forever-gesticulating sales staff swinging their appendages around like tassels on a rodeo rider–do not act in the service of accomplishing a discrete goal. If dance is like visual poetry, then my days find me beset by some unnameable screed of black vulgarity.

I have honed my own physical processes to such a fine state of economy that I can regulate the very pucker of my follicles in such a way as to allow the wind to pass most efficiently through my hair. I have made the odd compromise, I’ll admit, as it is not yet possible for me to move through solid matter in a predictable way. But even then I have kept my calculations strict, and adjust only as necessary. Several of my familiars have protested when I breeze by them with only molecules to spare, tiny arcs of static electricity crawling across our skin momentarily. But those same people will accrue miles upon directionless miles by the time they reach the end of their lives, and all that time heading nowhere, like derelict sailboats in the unyielding gale.

It takes timing and coordination, to be sure, and great attention to detail. But the alternative, Gloria, is dire. To squirm and convulse yourself into oblivion, eroding joint and joint, is just not dignified. Consider the Portuguese Man-of-War who thinks of nothing more each day than this: Dangle. And ingest. What shall I do today? Dangle. And ingest. You’ll not come across a skittering or giggling or fidgeting Portuguese Man-of-War, because they are content, secure, and planning for something which we may all come to know in due time.

In the meantime, Gloria, I beg you: please be still.

Will

By scamper · Posted in threat

entry_127What is the subtle chemical thing that prevents us from acting on our every whim? What restrictive tincture in the broth of our brains acts as the arbiter of proper conduct? Given the limited time during which we have the physical capacity to realize any notion, why not simply exercise absolute free will, to celebrate the myriad possibilities life has to offer?

These are the thoughts that consume me as I drive safely in my lane, or stand inert in the shower, or as I’m sitting in meetings, or–especially–when people are telling me their secrets. To what extent are these strictures self-imposed? That’s really the crux of the matter. Are we by nature creatures of resigned abstinence? I’ve long pondered this notion of self-control–or call it morality if you insist. And I bring it up only as I wonder: What is the first thing anyone would do without this governing thing?

Imagine for a moment a single redemptive act, a determined, decisive act of will from which there can be no turning back. This act is not meant to be sustainable, for you do not seek order, balance, or stability. This plan is beautiful in its simplicity. Imagine selecting a town at random, and renting a hotel room there, a large room, positively the largest that cash reserves would allow. It is the Presidential Suite, and it is excessive, gratuitous, vulgar. The liquidation of savings necessary to procure this room is of no concern to you. Now, finally, imagine filling that room with as many dogs as could possibly be collected.

After securing the room you head out to the animal shelters, to the pet stores, and you answer every classified ad for dog and puppy adoption that you can get your hands on. You acquire hundreds of dogs–thousands–with a cold righteousness. You are a tireless machine, driving the creatures back to your hotel room, slamming the door behind them, and then you’re off for still more.

When you spot a dog you catch it. You clamber easily over chain link fences into peoples’ yards at night to collect their unsuspecting dogs. You intimidate the dogs into compliance, or use mental tricks to confuse them. You drug the creatures if you need to, but not lethally. You want them alive. You want them alive in that hotel room.

How long would it be before someone noticed? How long could you sustain the lie to keep the curious at bay? How long could you distract the management with the clever use of the “do not disturb” card?

Why do we not swerve into traffic? How is it that we resist? It would take but a slight nudge of the wheel–less energy even than it takes to open a jar of capers. What prevents us from gleefully breaking the things most precious to us? Are we not curious beings? Why do we not smite the elderly with reproachful slaps as they lean in for life-affirming hugs? Surely it’s not retaliation we fear.

Each time you hesitate you lose a piece of yourself.

Instead, do what you need to do. Be not confined by the need to continue a reasonable life after this defining event. Stake your claim to the present, and let each action become a mechanical, inevitable realization of fearsome purpose. Financial concerns, the fear of tainted reputation, a lengthening arrest record, or even about the prospect of serious injury–those distractions must be discarded.

And now, finally, use every resource at your disposal toward this one end: filling a hotel room with dogs until they are stacked to the fucking ceiling.

Hello

By scamper · Posted in history

entry_125“Hello there.” My stepfather would say hello to us whenever he entered the room, invariably. I quickly learned–by rote–that a response was expected. It didn’t seem so outrageous, of course. In fact it seemed a friendly enough thing to do, so I tried it myself for a while. “Hello, Mom. People? Hello. Hello, all.” It didn’t take though.

One might think that the socially ungainly youth would take great solace in such ritualized behavior, insofar as it renders the vulgar act of thinking unnecessary. But to the skeptic there are situational subtleties that social doctrine is insufficient to address, so in fact the act of greeting proved to be a lot of work for me. As I grew ever more self-conscious about these automatic, Tourette’s-like utterances–“good morning,” “bless you,” “oopsie daisies”–it occurred to me that there there were an overwhelming array of hidden factors to be aware of. Had you already said hello to someone two minutes before? Had you forgotten something in another room and merely gotten up to retrieve it, and then returned? What if you had to suddenly go to another room, and a detachment from the original room took another route to get to the same destination for another reason? Did you have to pretend? “Oh! Hello there! Ha ha. Fancy meeting you here, when, just in the other room, you were there, too…”

No, I soon discovered that the mental gymnastics required to justify this kind of greeting were untenable. Perhaps it helped my argument then that my stepfather said hello merely as a means of control–something which, for him, would indeed clarify general usage. Oh, it was obvious. It was in the way his eyes would linger on us after a greeting, waiting for the proper response in such a way as to say, “I’m now waiting for the proper response.” The rest of us would acknowledge him then–a small price to pay for a momentary semblance of amity. But if there was little he could do to coax us to greet each other (“Your brother just got home,” he might say, “so what do we say? Aren’t we going to be civil?”), we were still expected to greet him superfluously, and this required keeping track of the man. Which, after a while, I had begun to do anyway, if only so that I could be somewhere else.

It was all very taxing, to the point where I was forced to forego the act of greeting summarily, even in cases where I hadn’t seen someone for a very long time. Greeting, for me, became a loathsome pleasantry. An obsolete social trifle that I looked down upon unabashedly. This suspension of greeting was, in fact, the only viable avenue I had for balancing the scales that my stepfather had tipped so decidedly in his favor. It was a power struggle, albeit an esoteric one that the rest of my family were unlikely to fully appreciate. I was the only one doing anything about this greeting power trip, and when I started getting the rude looks from others, I wanted to say, “Hey, you want a greeting, you know exactly where to go. Because you’re not getting shit out of me.” I felt righteous.

Perhaps like all stepfathers, my stepfather eventually faded from the family picture. But even so, it took me years to get over the stigma of greeting people. To this day I’m still self-conscious about it, and I think that’s quite a legacy to leave for merely entering a room.

For Sale

By scamper · Posted in story, thought

entry_122I noticed the car only because of the fancy sign propped up just behind its windshield, which was fogged like a cataract. The sign, intricately decorated with macaroni and glass beads, read, “Finally For Sale, $4,000,” like people had been waiting for it all this time. The sign was far more eye-catching than the subject of advertisement, itself a nondescript American make whose paint was of some elusive color between beige and gray. The U.S. does still craft nondescript cars, though the heyday of these little charmers was in the mid-seventies. Many of them didn’t live long enough to see the beginning of the eighties. These were cars made without flourish, lacking entirely any kind of stylistic nicety. And a $4,000 asking price was far too much to hope for.

It was kind of sad, this diminutive slab of metal. Each day I passed by, I gave the car a courteous glance. It was the least I could do, I thought. Surely this inert box, a product created to fill a niche market identified in some long-abandoned boardroom, was our responsibility still, wasn’t it? Or had we pulled this lackluster thing into existence to satisfy some immediate need, only now to leave it abandoned? The possibility seemed irresponsible, but perhaps not so unfamiliar to a good citizen of the consumer class.

Less than a week since I’d first noticed the car, something about it had changed. The sign. It was the same sign, but it now read, “Finally For Sale, $3,000.” Certainly headed in the right direction, I thought. I imagined that someone had talked to the owner of the car, struggling to point out in as diplomatic a way as possible that $4,000 was a little more than anyone was likely to pay. Where our irresponsibility as social creatures was manifest, perhaps we were redeemed in some way by our ability to thoughtfully adapt to market expectation. The thought didn’t necessarily fill me with warmth, but it was at least something I could take as a positive.

Still the car sat, an object of mounting rejection, and I felt the weight of it. Save for the occasional flicked glance I began to avert my eyes. The car stared at me unblinking though. It wasn’t like a puppy who needed a home – I had no interest in owning a car. No, it was more like a knowing look: You who would pass by. You who are fallible. You, lost in your world of interior monologue.

A week later the sign caught my eye. The price had gone down again, this time to $2,500. It was like watching a bedridden relative waste away. A few days later and the price was set at $2,000. And the beginning of the next week saw it dwindle to $1,200. By then I was ready to write the whole experience off as just so much noise, until the third Thursday when I saw in the car’s window, “Finally For Sale, $971.”

$971? Seeing this provided a strange relief, an excitement, and it quickened my step. Perhaps it was just enough to cover the cost of a drunken dog-buying binge. What had they been thinking that night? Or maybe $971 would get them that home laparoscopy kit they’d had their eye on. But in truth I suspected something much more clever. The fact is that 971 is a prime number, alone and iconoclastic. It doesn’t even pretend at playing with the other numbers. And so it was that I suspected the seller had finally experienced a breakdown of some magnitude, and this price was the result: a coded call for help that none could hear but me. Like gravity though, such calls are a weak force in the face of the commuter’s momentum. I was not immune to a pang of guilt, but my gait afforded me escape velocity from the woe around me. Anyway, I am at heart a voyeur, not a savior – I savor the thrill of the watch.

So, fine, I was not willing to intervene, and the seller’s silent struggle would have to go unassisted. Imagine, then, my surprise when I passed by the sign that read “Finally For Sale, $1,033.” I wondered at it long after I’d passed the car by, and well into the afternoon hours. Was this some play on the dynamic of market psychology? Thinking about it, I felt watched. Someone was watching to see my response twice a day as I passed by, and I was the unwitting puppet. But I didn’t have long to obsess over the point, because both car and sign were gone the next day.

Someone for whom $971 was too small a sum deemed $1,033 the perfect rate for their ticket to independence. And for the seller, that $1,033 had proven to be the sweet spot. But what about the rest of us then? What about me?

The patch of gravel that remained seemed all too empty, and hungry, and I felt – really felt – a tug as I walked by. How silly and sad this had all been then, this drama, this distraction, half conjured to engage otherwise idle synapses. And, if it was possible, I felt a little embarrassed at myself. It was like waking to a sound only to realize that the sound was your own snore. No harm done though, right? And thus chastened I determined that it was the right time to move on anyway.

So I’ve been staring at other things.

Summer of Shrunken Heads

By scamper · Posted in story

entry_121The neighborhood where I grew up lay on the border between the old quarter and the new. The natives to the land were descendants of those left behind in the frontier days, themselves too unfit physically, socially, or mentally to make the trip westward. The late twentieth century had seen the rise of suburban sprawl and expensive homes, and with that came the lawyers and politicians willing to pay any price to live outside the nearest city. The divide between the old and new was a constant source of fascination for me, especially as tensions flared. On weekends I could hear them both from my bedroom window. To my left the bucolic rhythms of jaunty jug bands and the synchronized slap of bare feet on floorboards echoed into the night, and the morning brought fire and brimstone sermons and wails of repentance. To my right the antiseptic strains of classical music accompanied barbecue gatherings that spiced the air until dusk, and the morning brought the chatter of televisions to keep families safe from conversation and lawsuits.

Daily I watched the uneasy interplay of two cultures brought together in a time of transition, like tectonic plates, one steadily subsuming the other. And though it was this dynamic that was the source of many of my childhood amusements, there’s one memory in particular that I still hold most dear.

The redneck kids decided that the measure of one’s coolness was a factor of how fast they could drive their pick-ups over the neighborhood speed bumps. These latter, like the pavement itself, were an innovation of the “fancy folk,” and a novelty to a people raised on packed dirt and warped porch wood. Of course coolness, like any drug, is something that must escalate in order to remain potent. I was witness to this very phenomenon as, over the course of just a few years, the rednecks went from barely slowing down to actually accelerating as they approached the speed bumps.

Now, it so happened that one of the most unforgiving speed bumps was right in front of my family’s house, which was good fortune for a curious child such as I. So steep was the mound that I would come home from school each day to find my yard littered with the detritus launched from the rear of the rednecks’ pick up trucks as the tires bounced over the incline. Jews harps, corn cob pipes, spent rifle shells, bandanas smelling of gasoline and sweat, old photographs of proud grandmothers grown solemn after their husbands fell for the Confederacy, and a myriad of carved containers.

I was like an archaeologist, poring over the exotic relics from some foreign, but not so distant arcadian land. I’d started a collection, exhibited in our otherwise unused guest house, and my friends and I took to calling it The Museum of White Trasheology. We would take refuge there from the unforgiving heat of late summer, and invent stories to explain the paraphernalia, and we would practice our hillbilly accents while pretending that our lemonade was really moonshine from a still.

A week before school was set to start, our play became more frenzied and our laughs more shrill, but as the last few days of freedom dwindled we could no more deny our lethargy than a death row inmate making his final walk. As summer grew moribund the world we’d created for ourselves had grown more fragile. But I remember the renewed sense of hope I felt on the day I found the long cardboard carton lying intact on my lawn. Rather than opening it where I stood, I instinctively checked to make sure no one was watching before taking it to The Museum.

I called my friends over, and before long we were assembled around the item like curators around the latest artifact from the field. This moment, staring down at the carton, seemed like nothing more than an idyllic memory even then, and I hesitated, not wanting to spoil it. I remember the steady drone of locusts outside, and how it swelled periodically like violins in a horror movie soundtrack. And when I looked up my friends were all looking back at me. Of course they had been waiting for me.

I fished out my pocket knife and slit the wide tape around the seam, then pried the lid off with my fingernails. Inside were two rows of sealed glass cylinders, each with a single shrunken head inside. All but five of the heads were suspended in clear plasma, and the curve of the cylinders magnified the knotty brown skin, empty puckered eye sockets, and mouth slits sewn shut with coarse black thread. Thoughts of school faded like an old dream as our minds filled with superlatives. In an instant our lives had become larger than summertime – we’d made a genuine discovery.

Leaning in to get a closer look, I turned one of the cylinders in its hollow to get a better look at the label. The hand was crude, but the single word was legible: “Regular.” They were all regular, all save for the last two which were dry as raisins. I turned the jar at the end, and jerked my hand away when the words were revealed: “no sauce.”

“Guys,” one of my friends said, “isn’t Jeb’s that rickety old restaurant up by the creek?” He was pointing to a sticker on the outside of the carton. “I don’t know about that,” said another, peering down at one of the cylinders, “but this head looks just like Lawrence’s father, the divorce attorney? Look, he has that huge bulbous nose, just like Mr. Burtenshaw had.” Mr. Burtenshaw, rumor had it, skipped out on his family a few weeks back. They were still talking about it on the news, because the man had neither packed nor left a note. So there was no doubt in our minds that we were looking at Mr. Burtenshaw now – all that remained of him. “Hey, Lawrence,” I said holding a mock phone to my ear, “we found your dad.” There was a stunned silence, and then we all laughed ourselves hoarse.

By the time school started my life felt like an empty routine. I felt vulnerable because of what I knew, because I had gotten a peek behind the curtain. I had to wonder if our parents – the adults – were complicit in this. Was that the deal they’d made? The so-called “fancy folk” could build their townhome estates and strip malls on redneck land provided the flock was trimmed back from time to time? We watched the sons of lawyers and politicians mingle with the redneck kids, but with a newfound respect. And maybe they sensed something about my friends and me. We were quieter when they were around, and sometimes I’d see one of them touch the brim of their baseball cap and nod in our direction. “They know,” said my buddy. “You know they know we know.”

There was a natural order to things, after all, and it had simply adapted to the times. Adapted to the point where shrunken lawyer heads became a part of the balance, as well as a delicacy.

Of course things are different now.

Guilt

By scamper · Posted in thought

The lady forgot my hot chocolate. The receipt says I was charged for it, but the product never materialized, and I had a lapse and completely forgot about it until now. I worry over the receipt. So much time has passed, yet the reluctance I feel blooming up inside me must be overcome, and soon. Clearly I was charged, and must right this wrong. Up at the counter I see the shift has changed, so I catch the eye of the new attendant and explain my situation. “I was charged but never received,” I say, and flash a hapless smile. He has no reason to disbelieve me, and in fact probably remembers me from previous visits, so he prepares another cup.

No, not “another” cup, make that “a” cup. The first cup. Because of course I never got the cup I ordered. Or so he thinks. In truth he knows absolutely nothing about me. Maybe I’ve been patronizing this shop for the past two years only to set up this heist. In fact perhaps my nerve is such that – even now – I still have the first cup balled up in my clenched fist, and when the man at the counter passes me the fresh cup I will bean him in the forehead with the balled up first cup, righteous in my judgment that it’s all been too easy.

The thought is so perfect in my mind that it summons a wince, and passers by think I’ve just bitten my tongue. The truth is that I’m feeling guilty over nothing. It’s a phantom guilt. Pangs over what I might have done, or may yet do still.

The veracity of my story is assumed how? Faith alone: a fragile truth, a fragile trust, a bond borne on absence of suspicion above anything else. It offers almost too tempting an opening for disaster. I imagine wheeling around and spraying my hot chocolate on the nearest patron. “There! You happy now? You should have said no when I asked for a hot chocolate! You should have charged me treble! This all might have been avoided!”

Most of the things I feel bad about are things I’ve manufactured, though they’re no less plausible than any truth. And what is truth, really? I may well have purchased my lunch with money stolen from some beggar’s cup, so why not? Two paths lead to the same destination, one a path of virtue, and the other a path of deceit. Who knows which path I’ve taken but myself? Knowing the truth is insufficient to excuse me from the possibility of guilt.

On the other hand, I wouldn’t be feeling this guilt at all if people knew what I was capable of, and realized just how flimsy and inadequate an assumption can be. I return to my seat with the certainty that I’ve just stolen a cup of hot chocolate.

No Story

By scamper · Posted in thought, threat

With my seasonal cold in full swing, and the fluid in my ears high as a Venetian flood, every turn of my head is met by dry scratchy sounds, and my own voice is hollow and unfamiliar. I mention these things because it puts me in mind of the time I was buried alive.

When people find out that I was abducted when I was 13, and buried alive in a smallish wooden box for 111 days with only an air and feeding tube to sustain me, the first question they ask is, “How did it affect you?” And I tell them, “Not in any interesting way.” I wonder what is it they would like me to say? I’ll grant you that when you’re confined in such a small space with your arms pinned by your sides, and your own breath hot on your nose and shallow in your ear, you discover that your perspective on things is more prone to shifting than you thought possible before. It’s understandable, because your priorities become greatly focused, and everything else you thought about on the outside becomes so much noise. After a time you may even find that it’s hard to imagine keeping all those old concerns in your head at the same time. Even the notion of there being an in-side and an out-side becomes nothing more than a distressing distraction.

Limited as it is, the world inside the box is, finally, understandable. It’s graspable. You might say that it’s perfect in a way, despite presenting a challenge initially to your comfort preferences. My hands were bound at the wrists, so the luxury of being able to scratch an itch quickly became an abstraction. My new ascetic lifestyle presented me with few social options, so I was forced to seek creative solutions with those few resources available to me. When I panicked, for instance, I would gulp cool air from that plastic air tube, and it would whistle in that single hollow note that I hear sometimes still, not very far from where I’m sitting now.

You always hear the story of people who were buried alive, and how the experience affected them in deep and meaningful ways. But to me that story – the story that there is even a story – is nothing but a useless din. And what do you learn from clamor except that relief only comes from blocking your ears of it? No, what’s far more interesting to me is the possibility that someone buried alive might emerge without being affected at all. Is such beyond the realm of possibility? I posit that it is not, and have devoted my entire dirt-floored basement to prove my theory. My living mausoleum can accommodate up to twelve guests at a time – all the better to find those few who emerge without a story. And that, my friends, is the most peaceful story of all.

Interactive Disengagement

By scamper · Posted in thought

entry_117Until now the only remedies for people unable to otherwise cope in social forums involved psychotropic drugs, surgical modification of the frontal lobe, or surprise assassination. But now there is hope even for those of extreme disadvantage through a revolutionary system called Interactive Disengagement, actually a practical art form that balances engagement with detachment.

Putting this system in an anthropological context begins with the understanding that humans are intrinsically selfish, solitary creatures. As we no longer find ourselves huddled under rocks batting at cavebears, our natural instincts have atrophied to the point where casual social gatherings seem almost inevitable.

Let us now take a look at some of the dynamics of social behavior, and at some things we can do, through Interactive Disengagement, to minimize disgrace. We will use a party scenario to illustrate.

Scamper finds himself, horrified, at a house party. Though he’s found a group to associate himself with, he is nervous and crosses his arms to hide shaking hands and damp palms. In doing so he has made his first mistake by inadvertently taking the stance of the aloof expert. He is not aware that body language is an important part of social interaction.

“So, like,” says Dave, initiating a group discussion, “what’s the wackiest thing your family ever served guests?” As the others cluck approvingly, Scamper smiles to hide panic and scrambles for something to contribute should the expectation arise. Revelatory anecdotes, that is what’s called for. The idea comes to him that he might at least look cooler if he didn’t blink. That’s just the thing, thinks he, to convey a more intense, thoughty appearance. He concentrates on not blinking as he roots for ideas. Maria is saying, “My aunt served bouillabaisse to the children for Thanksgiving!” Approval is awarded through polite, metronomic laughter. Around the circle it goes, each contribution serving to connect the participants emotionally, reassuring them in the face of mortality that they are not alone. Not tonight anyway.

And then Scamper feels the pressure to speak. Forgetting himself he blinks his eyes for the first time in minutes, but has no time to halt the momentum as tears suddenly stream down his cheeks. “Papa once made my retarded brother eat a hooker. Um, that he- he was. He found…” But by now the conversation has died. The quaver in his voice has drained his words of life. Members of the group who aren’t baring their teeth in revulsion are covering their childrens’ ears, and an elderly couple begins to vomit uncontrollably.

Scamper’s anxious fear has revealed him as the awkward outsider; an interloper who threatens convention with his ignorance of societal mores. Naturally Scamper lashes out with his fists, and the night ends on an awkward note.

Location

The first thing one must do in any social gathering is to find a comfortable place to exist, preferably against a wall. People standing behind one are to be considered threats, and will probably make rude comments under their breath or just stare at one’s neck. Sitting in a chair with one’s head hanging, though comfortable, may actually draw unwanted attention. Rather, when gatherings threaten to become overwhelming, consider sneaking off and curling up on the cool bathroom floor.

Next, one must find a group of people against whom to practice peripheralism. The aim with peripheralism is to stand close enough to the group to seem open and approachable, but far enough away so that one isn’t actually forced to think of anything witty to contribute.

Appearance

Body language and personal appearance are indeed the first cues people look to in order to assign both social standing and content of character. This being so, one should strive for a kind of social invisibility by avoiding visual contrast with the other participants. If Scamper, in the scenario above, had approached the same circle with matted hair, unfocused eyes, a slack jaw, and hunched shoulders, and been muttering something like “gon’ dig me a hole,” repeatedly in a hoarse, singsong voice, chances are he would not be the first person consulted to expound on current events. While this may seem like a good thing, it is not the best approach to achieving social invisibility.

Nodding on cue gives people the perception that one is participating in a conversation, and will allay their fear that one is just watching. Avoid nodding for more than thirty seconds continuously.

The “thirty second principal” can, in fact, be applied to most social activities. The idea is that doing anything for more than about thirty seconds attracts attention. Social functions are not places for doing anything for prolonged periods of time. Being in society means moving, changing, being busy, and appearing more or less excited about the whole idea.

Behavior

Discouraging engagement requires both attention skill and quick thinking. One must identify the direction of conversational tide, decide on a plan for unsolicited attention, and execute the plan as required by the situation.

Avoiding eye contact figures heavily in this endeavor. Staring into someone’s eyes, especially if one hasn’t been blinking for several minutes, is often the only invitation others will need to engage one in conversation, or a fight. To avoid eye contact, focus on a spot directly between two adjacent people, or, in emergencies, over everyone’s head. If discovery seems imminent then one must remove oneself from the field of view entirely. Dropping to one knee to tie a shoe is heavily recommended. Alternately, one might look at one’s watch as obviously as possible, and then look laterally across the room as if in expectation of the rest of one’s party. This is called the “Where could they be?” technique.

When fear wets the palms of the sensitive one, it’s important not to hide them or to make fists. This will only make matters worse, especially if one must shake hands. Batting at phantom flies is a possibility if the palms are a little damp, but flailing in general should be avoided if the palms are soaking. For such occasions the best plan is to wear gloves.

Behavioral props such as not-blinking usually end in disaster, and should therefore be avoided at all costs. In order to “look cool” Scamper is sacrificing this bodily need, and that’s never cool. A more relaxed look might be achieved by lowering the eyelids slightly. Other bodily functions, such as breathing and urination, are best approached in a natural way, as too much or too little of either may draw attention. Another popular behavioral prop is speaking with an accent, but unless one has prepared a detailed fictional history, this is actually a behavior best avoided. However, speaking another language entirely is highly encouraged.

It is also important to avoid the rustic and unclean act of shaking hands. Shaking hands allows others to gauge one’s strength should a gathering turn ugly, and is also a great way to spread disease. One way handshaking can be avoided is to hold something in both hands, such as a cat or a baby. This is best done before one is asked to shake hands. Magazines make excellent props, because one can pretend to browse as needed, distancing oneself from the conversation. Avoid holding flaming objects or weaponry, which are looked upon as conspicuous in most circles that don’t involve white hoods. Pretending that there is something vile covering one’s hand works occasionally, but is enhanced greatly with a visual prop such as molasses or mustard. Sneezing into one’s hands will also do in a pinch. Preemptive blows to the requestor’s head should, in general, be considered only as a last resort.

Conclusion

The lesson in Interactive Disengagement, finally, is that participation is failure and to be avoided at all costs. In our next lesson we’ll talk about girls and how to avoid scaring them off by using the technique known as Gynocentric Disantisocialivism.

Notes from the Cell, Pt. II

By scamper · Posted in thought, threat

Dear Diary,

What are things? Or, more specifically, to what extent must something change before it becomes something else, something new, something unique? Persistence of vision gives us the illusion that things are static–all the shrieking in the world won’t magically turn a pair of reinforced tri-hinged handcuffs into an insubstantial cloud of stochastic pixels. That’s what I used to tell my house guests time and time again, ironically. And, now, we can rely on the three walls and iron bars still being there in the morning, unchanged, for the next 15 years (or ten for good behavior).

But change is everywhere. A bone broken is a fracture–but where was the fracture before I heard what you said about me? Are your bones then nothing more than a collection of potential fractures? It makes me think: maybe things can only become other things when we have names for them. Like a fallen tree part becomes a “stick.” Or stony particulate becomes “dirt.” Or you walking around without my fist buried in your face yet are a “target.” Without a unique appellation, an object can never rise above the level of being a piece of something else. It will never be something more. Something greater.

What’s interesting is when things become other things without changing. Sometimes velocity alone is all that’s required to make one thing another thing. A rock is a rock, but hurl it four thousand miles an hour and suddenly it’s a meteor. And myself, when I’m sitting in church, inert, I’m an anonymous part of the crowd. But three minutes later when I’m barrelling through that crowd toward you for looking at my girl the wrong way I become both your worst nightmare and the means by which your future therapist enjoys her new Mercedes. And let us not forget that just about anything–including dentures–can become a blunt weapon, if one has both the creativity and the desire.

We live in a world of apparent solids, but in reality things are, right down to their molecules, in a state of constant flux, their forms malleable, their definitions transient. Opportunities abound to realize new things which have no precedent: The crawlspace behind the shower vent is a gorntu. The cellmate who rats me out is a fyndilliper. And my crushed spirit becomes my… nuchiato blennthining. And perhaps this diary is no longer a diary at all, as it changes anew with each word writ.

Speaking of which, I need cut this entry short as I’ve run out of toilet paper and my finger is just about bled dry.