Here’s the story of jerks, achievements, and Rocky.
The curse of the hypnic jerk is one that has befouled the most colourful of merry-go-rounds. A hypnic jerk is the sensation of falling in a dream and suddenly waking up. But have you ever suddenly jumped and took in a cool, sharp breath, onboard a bus, letting out an audible gasp of pain as your neck spasms?
The whole bus becomes full of terrified passengers leaping to the ground in fear. The next thing you know, the bus has stopped, the anti-terrorism goons have showed up as if it’s an international crisis, and you’re surrounded finding yourself in a situation meekly described as ‘awkward’.
I often dream about this scenario happening since I’m always falling asleep on the bus. Sometimes, my head falls forward and onto the bell, causing it to ring. I find myself sitting there in a perilous situation hoping somebody else is getting off at the next stop. But nobody gets up. Do I keep silent and hope nobody rats me out? Or do I man up and tell the driver causing total embarrassment? It’s a conundrum, all right.
I often wonder if these hypnic jerks are like déjà vu in The Matrix. A glitch in the computer program, except hypnic jerks are a leap into another reality. A death in one and a rebirth in another. Literally, falling from life. A never-ending cycle of bell-button shaped marks on your forehead. I suppose those marks are better than an audible scream as you suddenly wake up, causing all the panic. Instead of “ARRGH!”, you have “DING!” Much sweeter sound, methinks.
We do live in a nation of fear. A world of fear. It’s a sad, sad situation, as Sir Elton once sang. Except sorry never works. You cannot do anything these days. The following paragraph comes from Old Man Limited, so forgive it, I urge.
I remember when mothers used to come on buses with their beautiful young babies. The babies reached over the seats and wanted to play with whoever was sat behind them. I used to oblige. It was innocent and the babies always giggled. Not nowadays. Mothers usually scream and shout ‘freak’. I remember when somebody fell over and you picked them up. Not nowadays. You are sued or somebody shouts at you telling you to stop assaulting them. I remember when you said hello to strangers on the street. Not nowadays. Do that today and you are stabbed for disrespecting them. Dear God, what went wrong with society?
You must find personal achievements nowadays. Happiness must come from within because you don’t know who out there is willing to play into your nostalgia. Take helping out around the house, as an example.
Mother and father are getting old and it’s nice to help them when possible. Like that time this week when I needed to screw one of those metal twang things into the skirting board to stop the door hitting the newly painted wall. A very difficult job.
I was holding the smallest screw you can imagine in my right hand, as I was trying to screw it into the skirting board with the screwdriver in my left hand. I slipped. The screwdriver, the large screwdriver, entered my finger, wiggled around in there, and re-emerged in a different place to the entry point. I felt a horrendous amount of pain, but there was no blood, so I carried on with my finger skin flapping about in the air. Then started the torrent of blood.
Mother was the first to see it. She was really panicking. The floor had just been laid and it was very expensive. And there I was getting blood all over it. I tried to carry on but once the blood started trickling down my hand I needed to grab a towel. And a mop. It all went wrong and my finger still hurts. But completing that little task was an achievement, a small one, but it made me happy. Sore, but happy. Well, sore but delirious from feeling mildly faint-headed for some reason.
But not all my little achievement attempts this week went quite as well as that.
I’ve always said that my biggest goal in life at the moment is to cook an egg. Because I cannot do it! Admittedly, this is a pretty weak and ridiculous ambition, but after many failed attempts, burnings, fires and eggshell rich fried eggs, I’d had enough. This week was my date with destiny. To get me in the mood and to set the atmosphere, I played a song in my head. Represented below in italics.
I pushed open the kitchen door. Risin’ up, back on the street. There was the pan, waiting, coated in oil with an egg perched nearby. Did my time, took my chances. A look of menace ravaged my face. Went the distance, now I’m back on my feet. I screamed, totally out-of-character. Just a man and his will to survive. I charged toward the frying pan. So many times, it happens too fast. I picked up the egg in a hand shakier than the morality of Miss World. You trade your passion for your glory. I gave the egg a damning glare. Don’t lose your grip on the dreams of the past. I prepped the frying pan and got her in position. You must fight just to keep them alive. I took one final breath. It’s the eye of the tiger, it’s the thrill of the fight. I reached for the pilot to turn the gas on and light the flame. Ah, damn.
Turns out the oven and hob were broke.
Oh well, there’s always next time…
Norm Papernick once said: “Those who can laugh without cause have either found the true meaning of happiness or have gone stark raving mad”.
Peace Out :|:
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(Note; photo taken by me of my hometown; copyrighted 2013)