It’s Madness

Do you know Nikola Tesla? You should. This is one guy that might have had the possibility to revolutionize the energy industry. He was what most would call a mad scientist. I think maybe he had a maniacal laugh. Maybe he wore his hair in a way that looked like he got into a fight with static and lost. The hair of course would have to be gray. He would walk around snapping his fingers and trying to conjure something in his brain all the while talking to himself.  Maybe he walked around with rags in the name of clothes and walked around the streets filling his sack with all sorts of paraphernalia.

In one of his notes he claimed that it was possible to generate energy from thin air. Almost like magic but not magic. Maybe then people confirmed his madness and the more fanatic called him a wizard. I don’t know how that would work. Would we mumble some gibberish and snap our fingers and a ball of pulsing energy would appear on the palms of our hands? Would we be able to channel that energy at let’s say a socket and power it for a month with no electricity bill? What would happen to power banks? Who would we blame power blackouts on? Would we compete for air? Would you have to choose between breathing and a fully charged phone? What would we do with all that power?

My mind kind of works in the same way. I think I might be mad. But there’s different levels of madness. There’s buying a new car and fitting in a loud music system without consulting your wife madness. You’re guaranteed she will never set foot into that car. She will look at it and you with contempt. It’s just a car to you but to her it represents rebellion. Buying a car without consent, to her, is one step away from starting a secret family in Botswana with a fat girl called Turia. Even if she fell sick she wouldn’t get in. You would have to sell it and use the money to buy her something ridiculously expensive just to get her talking again. This isn’t even guaranteed, you might get her a diamond necklace and find out that her head is harder than the hardest substance on earth. You might at this point consider the possibility of a Turia but she will see it in your eyes and give you that “You can do whatever you want honey” face but with eyes that say “And I will kill you and that bitch and make it look like an accident.” So you don’t know what to do and it drives you mad but you end up selling the car.

Then there’s the selling of the car and buying your wife something ridiculously expensive kind of madness. A real man would keep the car and maybe change the paint to her favorite color as compromise. You’d brush off the idea of a Turia by saying she’s your Turia only well-toned. You’d flatter her with compliments and take her out – in the car – and pay her favorite music the whole way until she finally decides it’s not such a bad thing given she can use it whenever she wants. But no, you sell the car and buy something ridiculously expensive. You know why they call it ridiculously expensive? Because once you buy it the seller goes laughing all the way to the bank. So you sell the car and buy her a gift. But, she gets even angrier. First you bought a car without consent then you sold it without consent and went ahead to buy something expensive. She’s furious and in your attempt to make things better – which by the way never work – you sell off the gift and buy the car again. You figure you’re better off stuck with the original sin. She realizes she married a dumbass, you admit to being one and finally temperatures cool down until you give your boy the car and it comes back with a box of condoms in the glove compartment which she finds when looking for the remote to turn off the loud system that’s blaring out of control.

I was having a boring evening facing a writer’s block. A writer’s block sounds cool but it isn’t. It’s one of those things that make you feel like you can show up to the office and tell your direct boss that you’re having writer’s block and they’d give you their condolences. A writer’s block from the sound of it could get you pity sex. It could get doctors to take a look at you nod their heads in dismay and announce “Sir, you have writer’s block. We’ve done all we could but now it’s up to you.” They would then proceed to unplug all the beeping machines and send in a priest to sit in with you during your final moments. That’s how cool it sounds. You can announce your writers block with the same excitement you’d announce having bought an F type – a red one. But it isn’t cool. There’s nothing cool about staring blankly into a screen and not being able to string words together. Writer’s block is the equivalent of erectile dysfunction. With ED you look okay, no one knows that you can’t get it up. You meet a girl at a bar after a few drinks she’s willing to go home with you. You know you’ll disappoint so you turn down the offer and end up looking like a gentleman only to get married and live a sexless life with no children and the promise of things getting better.

I was having my block, a beer and perusing through other people’s blogs just to see what they were up to. Sometimes inspiration strikes when you snoop.  It hits you at the back of your head and you’re ready to bang away on the laptop – ED meets little blue pill sort of thing. I came across a blog, on it was a story pasted from Biko’s page. My first reaction was to rant. I mean why would anyone do that? I jumped the gun and even went ahead to post on a writer’s forum my distaste. I had that same feeling you get when you see someone pose in front of a car that is not theirs and go on to post long captions. What I didn’t know was that in the process someone was hurting. That someone had done an innocent thing and even given credit where it was due. I was just trigger happy.

So this is my apology – long overdue and dolled up in intertwining storylines. Yes, I do apologize – sometimes, if I have to, and if I like you. I did get to know the person and turns out they are likeable. We have this connection thing going on kind of like telepathy and they love whisky. Anyone that loves whisky cannot be a bad person. Whisky and bad don’t mix. There’s something about perfectly aged smoothness that screams “Like me! I’m sophisticated.” There’s something sexy about how it sits in a glass and just sits, gleaming as cubes of ice bath in its flavor. How the smokiness goes down the throat tracing a path of passionate fire and spreading the fullness of its body inside your mouth with reckless abandon. Yes, she is like that fine whisky. My kind of madness was judging before I got to know them.Whisky-Barrel-Flooring


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