My computer is a 400 Mhz Celeron, gifted to me by someone who was a friend, but who needed to go back into the closet.
Needless to say, often times it is slow. I need to wait for it, wait for page files and memory swaps and all that stuff.
What that does is force me to slow down, to work slower than I can think. And the way I respond to that friction is to start tensing up, holding my muscles tighter. I start to grunt, if only inwardly.
This is my response to so much of my life, like when one of my parents wants to natter with the TV blasting, or I have to cook with a Judge being Judgemental coming from the TV, or a wide range of other challenging tasks.
I tense and I grunt, the very slowing down causing me pain. I tighten up and force it, causing my head to throb and my chest to ache. And I often end up hitting myself.
My father thinks this is a good thing. I need to slow down and think, according to him. He believes my failure is in speed; my profound, overwhelming and dissapointing tragic failure.
Me? I know that I am a sprinter, not a slogger, and being slowed down is what makes me fail.
My favourite poem from age four, from memory:
Christopher Robin goes
hoppity, hoppity
hoppity
hoppity
hop.
Whenever I ask him politely to stop
He says he can’t possibily stop.
If poor little Christopher ever stopped hopping
he wouldn’t go anywhere
couldn’t go anywhere.
So Christopher Robin goes
hoppity hoppity
hoppity
hoppity
hop.
I know that stopping the flight of my mind is stopping the flight of my heart, and I know it is a way I play small and self-sabotage.
I stick in the mud, grunt and sweat, all in the cause of self-destruction.
Callan 