lashings of the old ultra-violence or: the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry...

I found myself this past weekend, after a fairly heavy conversation, wandering the streets of my neighbourhood in what felt like a search for some lashings of the old ultra-violence. All I needed was a bowler hat and a cane and some poor unexpected louse to give a good lashing. Why I was filled with such thoughts, I don't know. I listened to "Maxwell's Silver Hammer" over and over again until I thought my brain would burst. I walked with purpose and agitation. I clutched everything I passed in my hands. I was immensely frustrated and hugely perplexed at a very unexpected situation.

Then the sky got very dark and it started to rain so hard that the old lashings of ultra-violence were turned back at me and I took several pieces of hail to the face. I laughed at myself and finally decided to change the song. I let my mind wander and tried to think things through. Surely none of the ideas proposed had been bad ones, that was true. In fact, most of them had been good ones. But then the doubt set in. But what if it's a Steinbeck novel and our best laid plans leave me killing a mouse and then a lady and we're run out of town before we buy the farm of our dreams? What if it's the Jeffrey Eugenides Virgin Suicides version where my head's already in the oven while you're out warming the car for our getaway?

The hail stopped and the sun came out and I made it home in one piece. My inklings towards the old ultra-violence had passed and I had quelled my Steinbeckian fears momentarily. I was beginning to like the sound of saying "yes" to you, which came as a pleasant surprise, indeed.