It's been a quiet couple of days for the beast (and its host.) Money, by far and away its favourite subject (closely followed by sex), evoked in it some preparatory squawking, as I struggled to persuade it that my father's decision to pay off my credit card bill (of £350) was the consequence of an agreement we had fleshed out together. The discussion had been a minor triumph, or so I thought at the time, an example of whole sentences spoken calmly, inviting the same in response. But the beast is an uncannily gifted mimic, and the mere appearance of agreement should never be mistaken for the thing itself. The host reserves (and very often exercises) an inalienable right to revert to type within seconds of terminating dialogue; so familar and so pressing are its learned responses.
This will engender great confusion in the mind of anyone unfamiliar with the First Rule of Entity Management... namely, that The Beast is not sane. Remembering this simple maxim will bring great comfort to those obliged to share their lives with a host (or hosts.) By this, and only this, can any sense be made of its endless, unfathomable squawking. The host is not a complicated, suffering soul; a changeable, mercurial artist; or gifted with hunches fascinating for being so totally unpredictable. (Nor is she a narcissist, bi-polar, Borderline-Schizoid, nor any other of the headshrinkers' prognoses.) In almost all cases, she (and I'll stick with gender specifics for now, for reasons that will very shortly be revealed) was a calm, highly rational and intelligent human being, reduced to squawking insanity by the intra-psychic conflict waged relentlessly inside her.
No comments:
Post a Comment