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
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
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.