Image and Associations of the Idle Mind

An odd connection formed in my idle, driving brain this morning. I say “idle” because I was consciously seeking neither the image nor the associations. The 1998 song “I Think I’m Paranoid,” by the band Garbage, had queued on my Spotify Daily Mix, and I was going to skip it, but then it kind of drew me in as certain songs mysteriously will, and I ended up listening to the whole thing. Except I never really cared for that particular song. By 1998, Garbage had already pop-musicked themselves out of my zone of interest. There was something else at work.

The primary image, which, as far as I can tell, was raised by the song, is that of a steel, white bar, similar in shape to a 2×4, covered on one side by a row of large, multicolored lightbulbs. If what you pictured is part of a carnival ride, then you’d be seeing what I saw. It’s the arm or otherwise supporting beam of a traveling carnival ride, one of many on any given attraction, taxed with bearing the weight of carts and riders of all sizes, be they on the mixer or the Ferris wheel. This image, in turn, raised other associations: the sights and sounds of midway, where rough men with handfuls of darts try to taunt you into winning prizes for your spouse, date, friend, and/or kids; the smell of funnel cake and various other fried things; the general sweaty skeeziness that is somehow attractive and repellent at the same time.

Beneath these sensory details, a vaguer sense takes hold: that of the joys of youth–memories, probably half made-up, of walking the rounds with your friends at the county fair, hoping to see the girl you liked but afraid to let her know; the promise and possibility of the world beyond your town, the future which you were blossoming into, while unaware how safe and secure you already were, and how once you’d left, things would never be the same. So it’s not just the joys of youth but also the sorrows (though all of it has a rosy patina when you look back twenty years later, both the good and the bad).

All of this came to mind, because back in 1998, singer Shirley Manson thought she was paranoid.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

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Forgetfulness, On-Purpose

This figure is by my friend, Amelia North, which she captioned simply as “leaving.” Note the faded quality: almost immaterial, yet unmistakably human! Follow her on Twitter: @amelianorth.

People fade. This topic drifted through my head all weekend, sinking at times into forgetfulness, then carried by currents into different subconscious zones, rising unexpectedly to bob at the surface for a while. I’m not talking about the gradual forgetting that happens by successive generations after we die, I’m talking about the out-of-sight-out-of-mind phenomenon that happens very much while we’re still alive, the one that’s going on right now. Think about folks you knew in grade school, folks you’re not even friends with on social media–haven’t they faded for you? If and when you remember them–and that’s a big if–they’re as you last saw them, paused in youth or young adulthood. The truth is we rarely have significant reason to remember most the people we’ve forgotten, and that’s largely okay, I think. But then there’s the occasional someone we never thought we’d forget–a best friend, a former love, an adult that seemed like a third parent. Of course you remember them–who they were, what they meant to you–but it’s in a detached kind of way, like the way you remember a character from a television show you watched religiously.

This would hardly be worth writing about if it weren’t so strange–the way someone essential to our happiness twenty years ago is now such a non-factor as to almost never arise in thought. I guess it’s sad, or is it? I can’t decide. I do know this: it’s completely natural. Whether sad or not, it’s something as natural as eating. I’ve thought about lost relationships  on occasion, wondering if I should mourn them or maybe try to recover them. But, tellingly, there’s little motivation to do either. Is this a flaw in my character? (Don’t answer that.) I suspect, too, it’s part of an emotional healing process. Except the rub in the healing theory is that often there’s little actual desire to heal. When things end naturally, often our response is simply to let them. Or in more famous words, to live and let die.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

Temperature of Fear: Attack of the March Hares

The stuff of nightmares.

Before sunrise this morning, there was a briskness which I breathed deeply. It reminded me of fall. Late fall, to be exact. Maybe even post-Halloween, when temperatures surprise you with their lowness. The kinds of temps which, in Tennessee, one doesn’t expect until December. I worried my flannel-shirt-and-hoodie combo wouldn’t be enough, but I also knew the temperature was going to rise at least twenty degrees, and I was only going to be outside from the garage to the car.

When I rounded the back-left corner of my RAV4, moving to the side where no light from the house reaches, a pale sliver of white—incorporeal-seeming in the pre-dawn black—scurried off soundlessly down the grassy alley formed by ours and our neighbor’s fences. It was as if a fuzzy rectangle of moonlight had freed itself from the ground and broken into a full sprint. I decided it must be a rabbit. We know they’ve birthed at least two litters in the backyard, if nests found while mowing count as evidence. Once on a separate night, I walked out into the backyard and was startled, as something apparently alive shot off in a blur from the shadows behind my boys’ swingset. This, too, had to have been a rabbit.

The odd thing, however, is that despite all evidence these dark encounters were with rabbits, I still felt that little rush of a touch with the unknown, because I couldn’t see them well enough to make a positive identification. On both occasions, all I could sense were fast movements and pale blurs. Perhaps a primordial fear of the supernatural tried to overcome my good sense, but I resisted it by telling myself they were only rabbits. Or perhaps the unseasonably cold temperature had me in a spooky frame of mind, mentally somewhere in the vicinity of Halloween, which is a place I tend to hang out anyway.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist