Soothing My Temper with a Violin
There’s a thin line between being the negative guy, and being a negative guy with a touch of logic to his theory. The first guy is a Volkswagen Beetle, engine running, in a one car garage. He’s noxious. He stinks and everything around him stinks. At least the second guy has the common courtesy to turn off the engine. The setting might be the same damp garage with boxes of mom’s old nighties and mismatched slippers, but at least it’s not killing anyone.
I’m trying not to become the former. I’d like to argue the point that what I do isn’t negativity in it’s natural state. At times, when the situation absolutely rejects the option of optimism, I like to think I react favorably. I’d rather not dip my toes into the cold pond of hate-rage and spitfire. But hey, someone’s got to do it.
I’ve noticed a temperamental anthem playing in my head lately. It starts with violins. You wouldn’t think it starts with violins, but it does. I’m pretty sure it’s the angle on one shoulder, devil on the other, situation. Except on my shoulder, there’s a bald lady with a tattooed head standing on a milk crate. She plays the violin. On the other shoulder, there’s a pit of chimpanzees armed with wiffle-ball bats and fireworks. I’m not exactly sure who’s playing the role of the angel or the devil.
Queue the violin. Soothing at first. Then louder. More aggressive. Maybe the lowest string breaks so the sound is more like bees. Up to this point, I can pretty much keep my cool. On the outside, I’m a monk. I’ve got my legs crossed into the lotus position. The birds are chirping. The task at hand is getting done. It’s all good.
On the inside. It’s like there’s an itch that I can’t reach. Internally, I’m writhing a little. Contorting myself, trying to settle the fire ants that have begun to line dance. It doesn’t take long from this point. The trigger’s wonky. Some days I have patience. I can sit and listen to violin for hours. You can step on my feet. The pet cat can get flattened by the garbage truck. The paper cuts can find their way to the soft skin beneath the fingernail. And it’s all good. Why is it fine somedays and not fine others? I don’t know. My mom used to tell me it starts with a healthy breakfast, but I’ve long since busted that myth.
Other days I can only handle the sound of the violin for a few seconds. Then it’s like a someone threw barbecue sauce covered candy into the chimpanzee pit. It starts with nothing. I fumble my toothbrush into the sink for half a second, and all of a sudden, I want to drive a literal flaming car through a village. There’s no rhyme or reason. My girlfriend might ask for a hug, but for some reason, those goddam chimpanzees are pulling each other’s hair out. They’re screaming over the violin and biting fingers and I’m definitely in no position to give hugs.
This is internal. No one sees this. My girlfriend can’t hear the violins or the chimp war-cries. Most of the time I can hold it together, structurally. There aren’t going to be any open mouth smiles from me, but I’m not sitting with my arms crossed and the pouty face. I can talk. I can rationalize. But I can’t fucking hug. Not with all the racket. That’s when the lady with the violin and the tattooed head starts getting creative.
She knows I’m in turbulent waters. So she starts missing notes. She plays poorly because maybe she thinks it’s funny to watch me squirm. Then, the voice of reason comes in. Only, the reasoning is poisoned with noise pollution and bad string music. It’s not that I don’t want to hug my girlfriend. She’s top echelon huggable — if we we’re going to rank the characteristic. But why did she have to ask for a hug? How am I supposed to show genuine affection as requested, rather than according to my own free will? Remember that fucking toothbrush falling into the sink? What about that asshole who left an unflushed shit in the toilet at work two days ago? What about racist Donald Trump and lunatics shooting up gay clubs in Florida and Hilary Clinton with her stinky maniacal pussy?
Try giving someone a hug then. Try gently rocking someone in your arms to the sound of a chimpanzee wiffle-ball bat war and shitty violin.
So I hold it together the best I can. Sometimes a little fire seeps out like those sneaky farts that ruin dinner parties. I battle it. There’s a priest and a hostage negotiator and everyone’s talking nice-nice. I’m doing my best to take the right advice. At the same time, I’m also pleading with my arms to make the shape of a hug. Sometimes I can force the general configuration, but my girlfriend isn’t buying it. She smells it on me like BO and bonfires.
She looks up at me. I know what’s coming. The violin suddenly comes back into tune. “What’s wrong?” she asks. At that point, someone introduces shotguns and rabies to the chimpanzee brawl. Nothing has ever been more wrong than the second someone asks, “What’s wrong?” I don’t understand the science behind it. Further studies are needed, perhaps.
Any time it gets to this point, there is a transformation. Suddenly I’m the lady with a tattooed head being eaten alive by chimpanzees, trying desperately to fight them off with what’s left of a shattered violin.
