A few days ago, a prompt in class, coming hours after a nasty dental procedure, put me in a weird headspace. This weekend I’m going back to the place I was imagining when I wrote this, probably not doing the assignment correctly. Here’s what is in my notebook from May 27.
How violence becomes a hobby: These hatchets are too beautiful for blood, unsullied to break my Viking ancestors’ hearts. These are meant to split or kill. They hang behind the beer taps while a ghost who looks like me dares a drunkard to take another swig and throw an axe.
It’s pretty bleak, but I didn’t mean it to be. I commented to my class that I thought the dental pain was darkening my thoughts. My physical sensations were turning a perfectly pleasant afternoon into something violent. I’m going back there tomorrow, my birthday. Maybe I’ll throw an axe, sans alcohol or goading progenitors.