Tricky the Demon -- Itching's Alt Consciousness

Previous "Itching" links:
Itching = Alt Consciousness Portals?
Secret Journal -- Scratching an Itch (or Not)
This Infernal Itching -- A Thorn in My Flesh
 
I feel a little guilty, but I'm overcoming it more and more. The short answer to guilt is obviously I wasn't cut out to be an ascetic. Whether not-scratching actually does you any good, it's looks like it can. But there must be some evolutionary reason why we scratch. It was probably those who didn't scratch who were overrun with bacteria and died. It explains why we have fingernails, and it's not just to give nail salons something to do.

I did my best with the idea. I had the idea suddenly one day that if I didn't scratch that might mean I'd be transported into other realms of consciousness. I'm always getting ideas like that, when I should just sit quietly after one comes and ask myself, Is it really likely that every stupid stray thought is a revelation? Or pick an idea and stick with it. If it succeeds, great. If it fails, at least I stuck with it. They used to advertise cars going 0 to 60 in 8 seconds. That's how fast I act on impulse.

Still, even as I think of it now, it makes a certain amount of sense. Portals to alt consciousness exist, and are likely round, and you can easily picture a round space encompassing every itch point. Even with my lack of discipline I'm smart enough to know that. But everything's changed now -- for the better, I hope -- and I'm back to scratching.

You'd be amazed at the heroic measures I took over the last couple weeks. I didn't shower for a week, thinking the more clogged my pores got, the more I'd itch, and the faster I'd attain the alt realms. I was half right. I had five times as many itches, but the commensurate realms were few. Until! I did have one, but at first I didn't think of it as alt consciousness. By and large, as my discomfort rose, I had only discomfort. It felt like things were crawling on me. Honestly, I had to look a few times, and I believed I saw something darting behind me when I was near a mirror.

So that was the alt realm! Which confused me, because it didn't seem like a reward for not scratching, because it had more to do with tempting me to scratch. Weird, huh? But that was it! I did the ascetic thing and the alt realm came disguised as sin. Which I hesitated over but gave into. Now I see, it was the reward, the payoff. Like I said, at my lowest point, I thought I saw something darting behind me, and finally I caught a glimpse in the window. There was a being ducking and hiding. I called out to it, and the name Tricky the Demon came to my mind.

Who, it turns out, was only ducking and hiding because he wanted to see me really squirm, I mean, really really squirm. Maybe for my own good, but still ... sadistic little bastard. I'll skip over the preliminaries. He told me he was here so I could go back to scratching. I resisted with all my might! I shall not scratch! But he was persuasive, saying he had the injunction to come up and assist me.

His voice was like honey, sweet to the ears, seductive like a beautiful woman, although his form, reddish, deformed, and obviously demonic was much less of a turn-on. He said in words so soft and sweet how gooooood it'd feeeeeel to let myself gooooo, etc, with very drawn out seductive language, like maybe he was selling Calgon. I said I felt bad about scratching and he had an answer for that. Which turned out to be a Magic Butler, materialized here for the job of scratching me!

So I went out for the day, trailed by Tricky the Demon and my Magic Butler. Every word of this is true, by the way. Maybe I started off confused, but this was the only alt portal I was going to get, and it was a fantastic one. In addition to scratching me, the Magic Butler is doing all the things that regular butlers do, more or less by the wave of his hand. And Tricky the Demon and I have been luxuriating on the couch, binge-watching old movies and eating free Whitman Samplers that he's teleporting in from somewhere.

I love it. All the luxury I'm getting, Tricky isn't making it, it's teleported in. Anything I want, I haven't paid for a thing. And apparently it's all untraceable. I'd guess the warehouses would have video cameras. But all they'd pick up would be the thing vanishing. Heck of a way to live, I know, but I don't see a downside. Tricky really is the Prince of Tempters, and so far I'm not noticing any ill effects. It's all great.

Anyway, I've changed my opinion 100%. Itching is out; full, free, and purposeful scratching is in. It really is true, you barely see anything when you fail to scratch. But when you're scratching -- I mean going at it with the full force of gusto, just short of drawing blood, all of life is open to you and the possibilities are endless. This is the greatest thing I've ever experienced. And that covers a number of things, of which the less said the better.

The good news, I'm back to scratching. The Magic Butler's scratching me, and himself once in a while. The places I can't reach, or don't want to because I'd have to wash my hands, I'm letting him get. Everything in front, above the waist and in plain sight, I'm going for. Tricky lies on the couch and looks at me, a playful smile. His eyes scrunch up when he smiles. He's truly delighted to see a guy in comfort.

So this is my thing now! It all worked out and it all makes sense. Alt consciousness comes from scratching and the grace of Tricky and the Magic Butler coming at my lowest point. I'm like Martin Luther King, Jr. -- I went down the mountain, I came back up, or however that goes. I imagined I saw it from afar, then I lived to arrive there, and now my children -- which I'm going to need a woman to get some of -- will someday play with children of the opposite color and be judged by their character, which will likely be very much like mine, beyond reproach.

I'm very blessed. I got alt consciousness from itching and scratching. Which maybe, like Dorothy said, I had all the time. But like her in Oz and waking up, maybe the Magic Butler and Tricky the Demon are just guys in the hood, the mailman and one of my cousins. With a bunch of old Whitman Samplers. They seem real enough. Life's still full of mysteries, like a box of chocolates, teleported in from somewhere. Over the rainbow?

A Death in the Family -- Scarecrow

We just had another death in my family. They seem to be piling up, which I hate. I let the last few go, but finally I've had enough, OK? I don't precisely know any other way to stop it, so I'll just tell you what I'm going to do. Starting with this last one -- then in the future if there's any others -- I will be offing someone from popular culture. Kill my family, will you? Then suffer the consequences.

This time, I'm sorry to say but it's Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz. Old Scarecrow's going away for a long long time -- forever -- like my loved ones, never to return. Again, sorry about this, and sorry if it makes you angry. If it does, at least you'll have some idea how I feel. And if you want to know the honest to God truth, I like Scarecrow. He was Dorothy's first partner on her way to Oz, and for a guy without a brain he did a pretty good job talking, singing, dancing, and fighting wicked witches.

But now it's been years since any of that. The gang's been split up and scattered for years. Dorothy's an old old woman in Topeka, barely making ends meet waiting tables at a diner. And the rest of the group has been out of touch with the others for years. I've had friends like that, then suddenly they're gone, no doubt forever pining to see me again, I'm imagining, if only they could.

Scarecrow, the same way Tiny Tim ended up, is in an old hotel in Des Moines. He stays inside a lot, so much that when people hear he died, they'll say they thought he was already dead. But he can barely move, being broken down, with no one to restuff him. Even that's the least of his worries; he's got total rot in his flimsy supports, brain damage, etc. His spark of life has a faint but persistent short circuit.

If anyone could help, it'd have to be Dorothy, who only answers if she happens to be next to the diner's public phone. Lion and Tin Man are probably in a home somewhere, Lion dribbling in his bib, and Tin Man rusted in the nodding position, more grey than silver.

All the hopes Scarecrow had, dreaming of everyone getting out on the road and doing their songs again, of course that's been out the window for ages. He used to have terrific regret about it, now it's just wistfulness and a dull pain; he wouldn't remember how it went anyway. Age can do that to a guy. I knew an old guy who used to tell me he forgot more than I ever knew, but in the end, as he declined, regrettably I overtook him in the knowing-forgetting differential.

Getting toward the end, Scarecrow heard a noise outside and his hopes rallied. A loud car coming by -- maybe it's them! He struggled to his one good elbow and looked outside, in time to see a young beauty queen in a convertible going by -- so young. She was on her way to be feted by the town, with her young male friends all looking up to her. He thought, That's how it was for us in the Emerald City ... losing his train of thought in a rasping coughing fit.

Memories are so much harder for Scarecrow to contemplate. They used to be like brain-food, who said or sang what, what all they had to do to attain the various boons from the Wizard. Those were the days. If only there were someone like that today, a Wizard, to renew this wasteland of post-modernity and his personal grief. He glances up at the calendar, unturned for decades, 1939, how long ago! No way to catch up now! He turns to the window and sees the grey sky. You'd think the old stuff would still be possible. Instead, everything is-- blank-- the possibilities fizzled.

And so now it's come to this. Pain everywhere, burdens beyond relief. A hardening of the straw tufts, complete calcification of the joints, brittle straw bugs, life ebbing away. He feels a strange mental spasm, some weird movement in his head. Did something erupt? An aneurysm? Wouldn't that be ironic, for a guy who wanted a brain? It hasn't been exactly smooth sailing for quite a while. Now and then consciousness emerges reliably, then veers off a dozen different directions. He senses things going to pot, a little here, a little there ... "That's me all over, and now, for me, it's all over."

As it turned out, no one checked on him. A couple weeks went by and the mailman noticed junk mail piling up in the box by his door. Then he thought he smelled the horrible odor of rotting straw from within. He called the Des Moines police, who carefully donned gas masks and bravely moved in to face the hideous scene.

Three Cheers For Brains

The Wizard of Oz famously said, "Every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the earth or slinks through slimy seas has a brain!"

To which I say, "Hallelujah! Someone finally gets it!" Because I've been saying a version of that for years. And not only about brains but lots of other body parts, too. This realization came to me early on, which, frankly, might not be something a kid would think of today. They're not as close to nature as we were back then, since we were always going fishing and hunting, then cleaning/dressing the fish and other animals.

I'd look at the animals and point it out to my proud dad that a rabbit has two eyes, a nose, ears, etc., just like we do. And I'd do the same for squirrels, deer, dogs, and even fish. Fish are a little different but the same basic body parts and functions are there. When we'd clean fish, it was one of my least favorite things to cut out their digestive track. But I held my nose and did it anyway. And now I'm glad I did, because it made me aware very early in life that fish also excreted waste.

Of course we had pets, mostly dogs. I really learned a lot about life by observing dogs. One, they appeared to have a brain, just like the man said. Then there were all the other things I'd come to expect, including eyes, a nose, and so forth. Now that I'm thinking back, I actually remembering pointing out to someone that dogs had heads and the basic design of their heads were just like ours.

If you want to think of differences in dogs, between them and us, look where their nipples are. If we were built like that, our nipples would have to be near our waistline! Thankfully it's not that way! Imagine what it'd do for cleavage! The thing about dogs in this regard, though, speaking in practical terms, with evolution in mind, is that they generally have multiple young. So they adapted, the ones with nipples where the young could get to them tending to pass on their genes. Thankfully, they found a happy medium, i.e., where they're located now, since clearly they were running out of room, stopping just shy of the genitals.

I'm sure glad I have a brain. I use it all the time, really for everything. There's not a day goes by that I'm not using it. But I still don't know how to spell pusillanimous without looking it up. Although, since I'm a man, I can come a lot closer than every pusillanimous creature that crawls on the earth or slinks through slimy seas, which also, regardless of their inability to spell, still have brains.