My sorrowful cry is this, "Death be not proud ... be a little bit humble."
I'm as humble as wallpaper, plain wallpaper. I'm trying to be extra humble, lest I find myself in the throes of a whole panic meltdown. It is a wild and crazy ride, the psychic inflation that goes along with procuring and installing the actual Old Faithful geyser in your back yard. I forgot this was going to happen. But even though it's not actually turned out and squirting yet, naturally I became proud, celebratory, and now I've been reduced ... in ways I really hate to describe ... because part of the whole thing about getting back up is to keep the torment somewhat hidden. Not neglected but fairly under wraps.
Cousin Roto has long since gone home. I don't know if he ever pays any psychic price. He might be one of the brutes of our species, without the extra sensitive knobs and whistles that I came with. I remember that as kids, at Christmas, he was very unsentimental. Not as appreciative of family traditions and formalities. He's probably doing just fine. He installed Old Faithful, big whoop to him, no doubt. He actually went home because he's ticked off at me. My barking of commands wasn't pleasant, "Gas jets on!" Then "Off! Off! Off!" I couldn't make up my mind. I figured it'd blow.
The humility instinct finally kicked in after some stern reflection. My bout with olfactory hallucinations seems to be getting worse. I don't know if there's a connection. I had to change pants a while ago because of the smell. Which smell is probably not even really there. Because I think I'm smelling it again. Parts is parts ... and the whole system is tied in one piece with another. Whether the smells are there or not, I still smell them. So it's getting me down, that and this enforced humility.
When, or I should say, if I ever get the thing working, I'll need to watch it with one eye blinking or something, so I don't feel too proud. What do you think? 50 per cent awareness equals 50 per cent pride?