Notes From A Walkman Junkie: I Like To Touch Things
I am what one might call a person that is very into pleasingly and interestingly textured objects (and animals…and people)–that is– I like to touch things. Though my fondness of textures is mainly focused on softness (you need just look into my pet bunny’s eyes and you will see that he has had more than his fair share of “Dear god, please don’t let this turn into a ‘Lenny moment’ from Of Mice And Men” times…again –yes, he has seen that film as well as Fatal Attraction, which is why I do not cook in front of him), there have been a few other situations in my life when my sheer animalistic curiosity about how something felt or was put together led my hands into an unpleasant situation that I always undoubtedly regretted.
Fortunately, the most memorable and disturbing instances occurred when I was quite young (you know–when you are not impressionable at all and things are not burned into your psyche and won’t emotionally scar you for the rest of your life) and I have since learned to somewhat control (it helps when others are around me that can detect my warning signature hand gesture–wiggling and twitching my fingers– of impending, very likely embarrassing handling, and ‘talk me down’) my primal urge to touch many soft and/or intriguing things in my surroundings.
One of these experiences of woeful contact happened during my kindergarten year at a catholic school (this was when I was still a god-fearing child and had yet to write my masterpiece paper a couple of years later in which I denounced god’s existence and mentioned also that “I love having a brother and sister, but sometimes wish that I got all of the extensions”–I can only assume that I meant “attention”, but I may have just had a weird hair thing). My mother had invited one of the priests from our school over to our house one afternoon–not really sure why–I guess just to hang out and be priesty…maybe partake in a delicious cheese log or something.
I saw him sitting on our couch and could not help but notice that something was terribly odd about his hair (basically, he had a major comb-over, but I did not know that–I just knew something was very dicked up with his hair and I needed to investigate further). My fingers began to wiggle and I carefully–with ninja-like skill– crawled in back of the couch and slowly stood-up behind the unsuspecting target. I then carefully began to pick up the clearly displaced hair strands one-by-one and move them to the proper (as deemed by me) side of his head until the top of his head was fully exposed and the extremely long, newly transferred strands hung down to his right shoulder. Mystery solved!
Not everyone, however, was as delighted and proud of my discovery as I was–least of all–the priest. I mean, he had obviously been privy to the workings of his hair for years and had surely grown accustom to dealing with natural elements like wind, rain, and cats fucking with his crafty do, but never the dreaded unnatural ( I use the term ‘unnatural’ mainly based on the fact that I am kind of an extraterrestrial–just watch me try to hug someone– and have incredibly odd reactions to natural things–like when I tried a ‘natural’ deodorant for a while and ended up looking like I had some kind of an aggressive flesh-eating disease) and fiercely determined element– young Anne.
Now, I do not actually remember touching (correcting) that priest’s hair many years ago. I can only assume that I was in some sort of touchy-type trance at the time or I have just repressed it along with the majority of my childhood memories, all of high school, my marriage, and most of this week. Either way, I am glad to be strictly a “softness surface explorer” now. I am going to need more bunnies. I am attaching “Land Of Feeling” by Here We Go Magic.