Chewing Feathers

By far, the most enjoyable part of my travelling has not been what I’ve seen along the way but who I’ve met. If I had stayed in my hometown in England I’d never have smoked a spliff with inmates in their cell during a prison visit in Ecuador, or had a conversation with a Freight-hopping Brooklyn vagabond in the alleyways of New York City, or played a thousand hands of cards with a loco Panamanian who drank Las Vegas dry and escaped the US owing thousands in medical bills. (I’m not condoning any of this, they are merely examples of some of the more interesting characters I’ve met along the way.) From drinks with a ’60s Slovenian pop star to a night in Thailand with a Hawaiian pot dealer, for me, it’s all about the people.
It’s just a shame that I’ve either had to cut the meetings short, (I should have gone to the golf club in Slovenia), or missed the bones of a conversation (what was the homeless mans ethos again?) If I hadn’t had the Crow flapping in my ears, maybe I’d have learned and experienced more than I have. But then again, if it wasn’t for that feathered demon from the Abyss, I probably wouldn’t have sold my home in England – I wouldn’t be here, house-sitting in Greece, watching the distant fishing boats idle on the calm blue sea.
I often lament those split conversations, the times when you find yourself talking to someone in the outside world, but you’re also busy trying to talk sense to yourself somewhere in that chaotic world inside your head. Dissecting a thought you take too long answering a question, there’s an awkward silence, maybe you didn’t quite catch what was said. You ask them to repeat their question, just as another spiked ball bounces into the equation. You’ve missed the real world conversation AGAIN! You’re standing there, literally face to face with a man you met on a train, and you’re listening but struggling to hear a single word he’s spoken all morning. A third time, and yes, you hear what’s being said but it makes no sense because you missed the critical three minutes of dialogue before this query.  You smile apologetically, “Sorry mate, I was miles away.”  You blame a late night, say you’re a prolific daydreamer, or, “that joint has really hit me, man.” You certainly can’t mention the screeching bird in your cerebrum . “Sorry mate, I was talking to the Crow,” is not an option.
The problem is not only missing the key words but also, when you know precisely what’s being said, your stomach can feel so full of lead that you don’t have the mental strength to join in, or expand the question, or debate it, or anything at all because you’ve got the black feathered Prince of Doubt pecking holes on your head. Chances are I’ve missed out on more than a fistful of profound revelations because of this. Seriously, I could have had the answer to life explained to me in glorious detail but was too busy thinking about killing myself in front of my Nan to heed the words.
If it worked the other way around it would be the perfect solution to my problems. “Sorry Crow, I was talking to my friend, you’ll have to wait. Stand in line, come back tomorrow.”
The greatest problem with OCD, for me, is that big fat O. Obsessional thoughts that take over my entire world. Everyone, at least a continent’s worth of people, have dark thoughts, perhaps everyday. But with the crow, and the millions of other crows, and imps, and demon monkeys out there perched on peoples’ shoulders, it’s not just every day, but every second of every minute of every hour of every day.
It’s not surprising that we miss things. We just have to make the most of the conversations we do have, and as the Crow circles me a little higher these days, a plea for all OCDemons the world over to ignore: “I know you devils suffer from a warped social reality, but give your hosts a break, let them have a spike free conversation with whoever is sharing their table, whether it’s in a bar in Southeast Asia or in the lounge of their grandmother’s house, back the fuck off for an hour or so.”

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