Bitesize fiction. Normal

"I understand you have a chemical imbalance in your brain and take these pills to make up for it... but do they really work?"

"That's what the doctors say. But you know, the crazy don't know they're crazy. So it makes no difference if I think I'm normal, but I'm not, or if I think I'm normal and I really am. I need someone else to tell me how I am. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah... It makes sense. So the doctors say you're fine now with these meds. And you believe them?"

"I have no choice. They're the experts, right? Do I seem normal to you?"

"Yeah, pretty much. A bit out of it, that's all."

"It's how the medication works. They normalise the hell out of your brain chemistry, until you are in a constant state of apathy. Feelings don't come on their own, I have to simulate them."

"Ouch, that's harsh!"

"Yes, I need to pay attention and cue the right reaction for the situation at hand. Look. It's Tim's promotion party and I'm doing my best to be happy for him, but it's not really coming out right."

"Ah, don't worry about that... Tim isn't exactly well-liked by everyone in the team. There are lots of people faking being happy for him tonight."

"Heh, you might be right... Say, thank you for hanging out with me. Most people find it hard to talk to me and just avoid me."

"Aw, we're friends. True friends, even if you have to fake being happy to talk to me."

"You deserve the best fake friendship I can muster!"

"Thanks!"

"You know, sometimes I feel like my thoughts are generated without my explicit control. Like my mind just sprouts them on its own. I find myself getting some ideas out of nowhere. For example, the other day, I was walking by the glass wall meeting rooms and my mind wondered what it would be like to kick that wall and break it."

"That sounds a bit extreme. Breaking the glass wall, I mean. Think of the mess. And the reprimand. But I believe you about the mind thinking by itself."

"It often feels like the mind is a constant stream of random stuff and some of it surfaces as a conscious thought. And sometimes it tricks you, to make you think you thought it up, but it was actually your mind. Oh, look at me babbling! I must really seem crazy to you now!"

"Oh, no, not at all, actually -"

From the other side of the room: "Hey, Jenny! Come and have a drink with us!"

"I'd better go mingle, sorry. Duty calls, if I want other people to think I'm normal too, not just the doctors... Please wait for me here, hold that thought. Coming, Tim!"

"Come on Jenny, I'm a manager now. Drinks are on me! Don't just sit in a corner all by yourself."

"But I wasn't by myself. I was with my friend..."

"Friend? What friend? I didn't see anyone with you."

Layers

Ogres are like onions...

All of us are like ogres too. No, we don't stink. Well, not all of us... not all the time.

But we are like ogres, as in, we have layers. Like onions. Or cakes, because not everybody likes onions.

It feels like every time I acquire a new habit (or hobby, why not) I am growing another new layer. A new facet to show to the world. The ridiculous patient person. The writer (if inspiration is forthcoming). The idiot (because other people are nice enough to think for me). The fiber artist (tatter, for all you jargon enthusiasts). The grammar nazi (or linguist, for all you kind people who use proper grammar). The cook.

The cook? Yes, the cook. Or at least the sous-chef. Ok, maybe just the kitchen help... Aspiring patissier?

One may recall (if one has the memory of an elephant) one of my older (now defunct) blogs regarding cooking. I was learning to cook, but since my budget was so forbidding, I was also very limited in my repertoire. So the blog got scrapped, along with my budding cooking enthusiasm. Also, I have a picky husband.

Lately though, I have been starting to make pastry. Tiny nutmeg croissants (the kind that don't rise), biscuits (crunch!), cheese sticks (semi-fluffy), now pâte feuilletée.

It is currently cooling in the fridge and the butter is warming on the counter. I am still learning, but I am ambitious and I hope that is enough to keep me going. That and hoping to make at least a bit of an "oooh" at my upcoming birthday when I show up with treats made at home. Yum.

And right there, I have a hesitation. Small, but very annoying. What if they turn their noses up at it? I know they are nice people, but for a bunch who eats out at restaurants almost every lunch, am I a bit too rudimentary? Am I too wet behind the ears? Did I put too much water in the pâte feuilletée?

I guess I just need to gather my guts and do it. For my birthday, I mean. As for the rest of my cooking and baking occasions, I know I have two huge fans (me and my doggie), a shy fan (our roommate, who thinks it is bad manners to gobble up the whole batch) and a never satisfied customer (my husband, but he just won't eat sweets these days).

Sometimes I wonder if hiding all those layers is good for me or not. I did get an almost compliment for my little turtle earrings, so, why not give it a go? After all, I have a pretty tough (and stinky, if I do say so myself) outer layer: not caring too much what everyone else things about me or what I do.

"Ah, you like reading"

"Ah, you like reading. Have you read "Fifty shades of grey"?" someone asked me while I was perusing a Romanian book in a lounge.

What does one answer to that? I have truthfully stayed away from this book and anything related to it, like I do with all fads that smell fishy. I have gathered from some of my friends though that being asked if you read it is like being asked if you saw some very popular porn movie.

Well...

What did I answer? I said "nah, I only read sci-fi". I guess that is satisfactory enough for most people whose opinion of you is never going to be based on anything other than shallow observations.

I do read sci-fi. I gobble it up like chocolate truffles. It is, after all, my favourite genre. There are plenty of brilliant books that inevitably make you think. The authors not only speculate about science and technology, but also about society.

But I don't only read sci-fi. I also read fantasy (I know I heard a few laughs here and there; yes, science-fiction without the science part) and a few good books by good authors, very few and they have to be very good.

Some people only read what is "in fashion" at the time. Really, kids, reading is not the same as wearing fancy jewelry (neither is carrying a dog with you, perhaps in your purse). Try to think for yourselves a bit too.

Broken pencil poetry. Non-poetry

I used to hate poems. School made me believe that all they were ever good for was memorising and then reciting them in class. They were invariably syrupy and whiny. And they often rhymed too much.

When we got older, we had to explain the poems we learned. Some were easy, straightforward. Some were extremely intricate and we could almost feel the poet's ghost standing behind us, grinning at us racking our brains to solve their mysteries. I got pretty good at it. I started liking it. I even found a poet whose writings I really liked.

One day, I thought I'd do it myself. My first poem had a simple paired rhyme and consisted of a lot of clashing elements. To put it simply, it was horrible. I hope I've come a long way since then...

This is my one experimental poem about poetry, which they call "ars poetica". The whole poem is a protest against the daunting white paper and against all the expectations people have of poetry. There is a rhyme, but it is covered. It's my little "rebel piece" and I'm rather proud of it.

I wonder if you'll guess whom it is addressed to...

Non-poetry
25th October 2005


It's cold. This paper I'm lying in
Is burning inside my skin and this
Enormous pencil descends, about
To tear my mind to shreds, impaled
Into my skull with all the words bled out
Of my screeching heart, my brains scattered about on
That immaculate white surface to be written upon. I
Lie there, watching my ideas die, something
I never had, yet to which I fought to cling, the mind
I thought had been my own, that time my eyes were blind. Standing
In front of me you watch me straining, the wreck,
You watch as the rhyme slides around my neck, slit,
A trochaic rhythm for a heartbeat, grinning
At your contempt; my helplessness marring this pure,
Pure image of perfect, sweet and demure poetry.
You sneer and turn away from this cavity, appalled,
You're me, you're black, I'm mad, we're cold. See,
You have no more place to flee to -
I hurl my existence at you and hit
You with it on your head, hear your shell split in two,
See you fall dead, smile and drawl 'you innocent fool'.

Epilogue: Maybe now I can get some work done...

No, you're doing it wrong!

Sometimes I'm surprised by people. I shouldn't be. We're all playing charades, trying to guess what the others are miming and try to mime back a bit of what we feel about it all. It's almost funny when you think about it.

Don't let yourself get caught unaware... Don't let them understand more than you'd like. It's really very funny. But oh, so complicated.

That's probably why society doesn't like me much. "Why aren't you more like this? Or like that? Look at the way you dress! Try to talk more. You play darts like a fish on a hook." and other well-intended advice. I do try. For the sake of a few people who really matter to me. For the sake of my peace and quiet. It tends to be very annoying when they start giving advice.

Mummy always said "Be more egotistic." She should know what she's saying, she barely has any friends. And the only two people she cares about most are herself and me (in a smothering sort of way). But I digress...

Is conformity really necessary? If you want to live a nice, normal and peaceful life, yes. You can be yourself all you want when you're alone. But when you're with others, you must be a little mirror for each of them to reflect their expectations in.