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Rubber Band, 2
When the rubber band becomes the fantasy.
I’ve added a rubber band to my arm to remind me not to subsume to my nadirs. It’s not quite a collection of restraints but it’s getting there. I’ve officially created a colorful set of stripes in my skin. I am fascinated by the design of my interventions.
I don’t know anymore which bad habits I’m preventing with the rubber bands, but they might include the desire to smoke cigarettes, the desire to make unnecessary overtures, the desire to lie down and do nothing. The rubber bands tell my inner critic to let go of my throat. They are a means of keeping the nerves where they belong under my skin and not leaping out of me. A means of keeping my mind focused so I don’t accidentally fall back into fantasy.
But I hesitate to make that call. I feel like a magical idiot in Tolkien’s Middle Earth debating whether to take advantage of the ring and its full power. After all, why shouldn’t I? Why shouldn’t I indulge in the power of fantasy?
I come back to my health and equilibrium. Rather than adapt my realities to the gross totality of sensations, I am advised to metabolize my fantasy into my growing creative practice, my imagination. The thing is though, that the better I get at exploiting my creativity, the more creative my imagination gets at putting you back in my mind as the focus of my desires.
So rubber bands. They remind me to come back to reality. And they also look good. And they also create another fantasy. This time, not a metaphor. No, I like the way the rubber bands look on me.