The Amazing Exploding Head

Gaston: LeFou, I’m afraid I’ve been thinking.

LeFou: A dangerous pastime.

Gaston: I know


Sometimes thinking is downright annoying. I find that the less I do of it, the better I sleep. Normally, it’s not a problem. I just wake up and go through the usual motions with the barest minimum of consciousness necessary. Then once the little ones are in bed I can curl up in front of the boob-tube and happily suck on the glass nipple until numbly nodding off.

Unfortunately, last night I sat down to try to write something for this site and the next thing I know thoughts are bouncing around in my head like horny ferrets on crack.

I stared at the screen wondering: “What is truth?”, “How do we know?”, “What does it mean to be human, to be authentic?”, “If you choke a smirf, what color does he turn?”

After realizing that the ruckus in my head was getting worse rather than better I gave up and went to bed for several hours of productive staring at the ceiling.

I’d like to say that I’m back at the computer now, ready to impart the wisdom of a long nights pondering! But…I can’t. I got nothing.

Yeats wrote “things fall apart; the center cannot hold”, which reminds me of a carnival ride where everyone would sit on a large disc, which would rotate, first slowly, then faster and faster, until everyone but the person sitting in the exact center would slide off. When you felt yourself slipping you would try to claw your way to the center, but it seemed to inexorably recede from your grasp.

I’ve felt the same way when trying to find purpose and meaning. No matter how hard I claw, they remain maddeningly just out of reach.

I was a philosophy major in college, where I learned just enough to be dangerous. There were many sleepless nights as I tried to discover the “TRUTH”. Sometimes I wonder what I learned. Mostly I remember consuming copious quantities of coffee while reading with a book in one hand and a dictionary in the other. This scholarly drama would then be periodically interrupted by fits of cursing, running enthusiastically head first into a wall, or curling up in the fetal position while mumbling random lines from Broadway musicals.

Ah Truth…you’re a fickle vixen. Seductively swaying your hips and batting your eyes while coyly whispering blissful promises. Our trysts are a sweet foretaste, but longed for consummation is denied as you cruelly dance away laughing.

I love you!

I hate you!

Why do you toy with me?

Unless the play is the thing?