Plan (I don’t want one)


Contemplate that word.


Contemptible word, that word.

Plan. Plan. Bang.

It could have been Christmas, a family event anyway. His father slid the gift to him. They liked sliding, the somewhat slippery floor was one of the main fun factors of their family house. Wrapped in the colors of the American flag the package stopped dead between his lionesque slippers gifted on another such occasion to be worn on occasions like this, one of the first times they were out (and so he felt as well). Looking down at the package – he had raised in anticipation – he felt like he had a choice. It was weird. The screaming colors flashed silently. The environment of all smiles faded away. He felt: this was between him and the package. The package stared him defiantly in the eyes. ‘O-Pin Me.’, it shouted without raising its voice and with a mispronunciation so slight it had to be intentional. It was terrifying. He felt pinned to the ground.

At only sixteen years of age, he knew this was it. Choice. The. Sounded like the name of a band. He felt silly, sorry and sad. The package grew as he shrunk. He could’ve walked right into it, slipped into the crack where the wrapping paper was neatly folded to give it a well finished touch. There was nothing to discover but the only way being in, so he reached for his gun. Both it and its holster were asked for by him on occasion of his birthday, a day when society hesitantly humored him and his hubris. He had killed off whole imaginary worlds with it (and some real people too – albeit only in parentheses). Gun in hand, he felt he grew and quickly outgrew the package now at his feet. His gun morphed into a bazooka. He realized he had to be quick about it; his carrying arm felt like it might sooner fall off than be able to aim and fire.

Bang. Bang.


Get that last a right. There’s more than one language except for those who really make an effort be charitably and try to understand each other.

The blast was heavy. The package full of spite. It made him fly across a room that was no longer there. He was airborne. ‘It was a matter of self defense’, I would argue as his lawyer in a court of contempt for him, all focused as it was on the damage to the package carrying his original sin. A time honored tradition it was to abuse the family to insert by love the hatred that supposedly kept society safe. I was thrice his age then. I had accepted my package which put me in this debt that could never be repaid. The double bind some said. I would die trying so I accepted his defense in my very own. Traditions are very strange, they exist by virtue of not yet being defeated by fact. They’re pure resistance.

I just met him. Strange and all. I entered the cell, bars all around from ceiling to floor. The thing is: he was still flying. The skies were threatening and black. He changed them to blue and speckless when he saw my distress. Then he speckled them some. This felt nice and oddly comforting in an all too stereotype way. He looked into my eyes as if he was taking an Olympic dive. I felt awkward so I rush-opened with the standard line in the standard tone of voice asking him point blank what the plan was. The gap between the bars widened. I had to grab the bars for my life.

Just follow the flow, he said. Don’t plan. And certainly don’t talk in that tone, he was still saying in a voice just loud enough to make you wonder how loud something needs to be to be just audible. Re heads off creation he continued, and petition as well. Hate it. Sounds like shit Re does. He left me hanging. I had a cold and felt my nose was running but didn’t dare to wipe it. Hey Mr Oracle, I shouted, how about pretending to be normal for a while?

Can do, he whispered. Quit your whining, he added louder. I found myself blowing my nose in a room drab enough to have been the stage of many a genre movie. He sat across me, his hands cuffed to the table. He coughed and asked: better now? No it wasn’t, I said, but we did have work to do. I didn’t say ‘plans to make’ but I still meant it, which was worse than it being all the same. He started pleading in a monotonous voice that certainly would have gotten him a D in arts class.

This is the thing. They say: plan, do, check, act. Iterate and optimize. They replace their they with we so there’s no escaping your self. Write, reread, carve out, strike, condense. We’re in business. We have a goal to kick or scream at. It’s so boring we all know, but we try to keep calm and carry on. It’s how things are done. Be challenged without ever being challenging. Innovate whilst measuring it all by the same success. Criteria as old as money is. Create by recreating recreationally. Put on your virtual reality glasses from 5 to 9 and escape staying put. Recreationism. Meanwhile: stick to (y)our god damned plan. The odds are in favor of not being odd. Statistically there’s truth in just doing as is done. Cycling like vultures, beautiful animals but animals still. Repetition is the risk we rather take, it’s the package delivered when coming of age by parents who want us to be ourselves and can no longer imagine how that could be being anything other than themselves.

I think fuck striking. Elaborate. Expand. Bend the rules. Explain without being clear. Just follow your bloody friggin’ flow. Exceptions are what is needed to go to another plane. The trepidation of, of boldly going, of hating the plain (plane?) filled a-plenty with platitudes. Be dorky. Loose control. Where no-one has gone before try to go together even if the trip is solitary. People will follow eventually. They always do whether to the East or to the West or High-Up or Low-Down. They follow so just take the lead, don’t listen to them nor to us. Just go because just going is the only thing we have in common, all in common. He rested his case and I found myself going out without looking back my case in hand without having opened it to go through my notes. I had notes but none with this tone. Things are always up, I heard him saying from somewhere in my head, especially when they look down.

The case proved impossible. He would be tried. And tried again. I only just met him. It wasn’t the plan, just followed his flow floating on it flowing in me. Content with a D as long as it isn’t flat. He is guiding me, now at least I can think again I can fly from time to time. Writing is discovery and I wrote this discovering him.


2 responses to “Plan (I don’t want one)

  1. If so then consider me fucked, JPG.

    But thanks a lot for noticing, you seem an interesting enough guy.


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