the Crazy, the Lost and the Masochists adrift

Step four - "Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."

"When I get mad, whenever I get angry, I have made a victim of myself," - Craig Guthrie, The Mushroom Papers.

I served up some food tonight in return for something akin to minimum wage.

And now it is the next day.

When one first attempts to descend into the fiery pit of a busy kitchen, one imagines the satisfaction one will gain from being an artistic pioneer of the senses. An artiste. Providing the public with unique culinary delights which will fire experience and delight the recipient.

Long after that baptism of fire, one experiences the true nature of  the satisfaction gained in being a chef in a busy kitchen.

What is the best thing about being a chef in that environment?

Guess for a second.

Is it the fact that you are providing your fellow man not only the sustenance by which he must live, but the sustenance dressed up so that it might provide a sensory pleasure, guilt-free which defines the very nature of a worthwhile existence?

No.

The best thing about being a chef in a busy kitchen is the fact that you know, you KNOW that perhaps only a thousandth of the population is either crazy enough or masochistic enough to last longer than three weeks. 

No-one but the hardy of will and body can do this job.

No-one but the lost, the crazy or the masochist.

I have decided that I am all of the above.

But then who is Connor. He fits none of the above.

The funny thing is, I have never taken, given myself, or had the time, to look at what Connor is serving up. But I don't have to.

The other thing about serving some length of time in what most sane people would call Hell is that you can tell more about the skill and endurance of someone in the kitchen by getting to know them as a person than you can by analysing their cooking methods and techniques.

Connor's not a cowboy, but neither does he seem to be lost, crazy or a masochist.

As I said, I am all of the above and I should gladly explain why.

You see this was me.
Used to be me.

And it still is me.

A part of me.

He above.

Him above.

I am he.

That black spot above my right eye is permanent marker - an extra freckle I added which was there for at least two years as far as I remember. I had a white patch around it at one point from my dearest mother scrubbing it with bleach.

I am smiling.

Everyone told me that I had a nice smile. That I smiled with my eyes. That you could not fake a smile like mine, that it was a genuine, it was a bone fide smile.

But the day that photograph was taken, my smile was not genuine...
...no it was not...

...because I found out that morning that the puppy I had always wanted... and that I had eventually got, had died during the night.

I was set adrift in this world.

What you see on the outside, is often not what is on the inside, I told Jams last night.

This was Ted.
Used to be Ted.

And still is Ted.

A part of Ted.

He above.

Him above.

He is he.

And now a part of me.

That day, he was separated from his mother and set adrift in this world.

What you see on the outside, is not necessarily what is on the inside.

Then there was this guy...

...my alter-ego? that part of me that said "no, I won't go along with this, it's absurd"?  some called him "Fish" I called him "Friend" sometimes "Bastard".

 Living by instincts seems like no dishonest path to take when you truly connect with someone -

"Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion, and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer. Only connect, and the beast and the monk, robbed of the isolation that is life to either, will die."

-- Chapter 22, Howards End.

or perhaps that "making a beast of oneself takes away the pain of being a man" but I forget who said that, probably Thompson or someone he quoted.

Step four - "Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."

"Creation gave us instincts for a purpose. Without them we wouldn't be complete human beings. If men and women didn't exert themselves to be secure in their persons, made no effort to harvest food or construct shelter, there would be no survival. If they didn't reproduce, the earth wouldn't be populated. If there were no social instinct, if men cared nothing for the society of one another, there would be no society. So these desires - for the sex relation, for material and emotional security, and for companionship - are perfectly necessary and right, and surely God-given.

 Yet these instincts, so necessary for our existence, often far exceed their proper functions. Powerfully, blindly, many times subtly, they drive us, dominate us, and insist upon ruling our lives. Our desires for sex, for material and emotional security, and for an important place in society often tyrannize us. When thus out of joint, man's natural desires cause him great trouble, practically all the trouble there is. No human being, however good, is exempt from these troubles. Nearly every serious emotional problem can be seen as case of misdirected instinct. When that happens, our great natural assets, the instincts, have turned into physical and mental liabilities.

Step four is our vigorous and painstaking effort to discover what these liabilities in each of us have been, and are." - The Big Book.

Step four - "Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves"

So who the fuck is Connor and who the fuck am I?

Well, we're both drinking my home-brew tonight,

Connor is alright,

Connor will be alright,

He is not phased by the ferocity of service, he is young, handsome and healthy in mind and body.

I am not.

I am old, ugly and unhealthy in mind and body.

I love you already Connor, but your puppy must die, like mine did, and we must take a photo of you on that day, smiling, for everyone to see.

Oh, that sounded a bit harsh and over-dramatic, do you know what, I would have loved to end on that black note but I take it back, I really hope your puppy doesn't die Connor and that you maintain what balanced life you have until God sees fit to take it away from you.

 Oh, that sounds really bad as well - but I must end on a black note - so let your black pudding be the blackest ever - for ever and always you handsome swine and I shall continue with my searching and fearless moral inventory of myself while my home brew kicks in and I think of how to tell Laura about the Rothschilds, the Napoleonic wars, and how the modern fiscal usury system they created keeps a hundred million people living in a river of shit and piss, while a footballer drives a car around with a personalized number plate which equates to the life of fifty thousand children living without a vaccine.

So do I digress?
What has all this to do with any searching and fearless moral inventory.
Well, it's the best I can do.
I am a swine, I am lost, crazy, a masochist for no other reason than I must make a beast of myself to take away some of the pain of being a man, battling instincts distorted by greed and addiction, sometimes winning, sometimes losing.
However, if I were to make a moral inventory and a fearless one at that, I should place above it a brass plaque, with the word "Create" scrawled in large letters.
Because this is where it all begins - genesis, the outlandish act of creation - where my purpose lies, has lain and is yet to repose comfortably - the reasons for which must only become apparent after the act itself.
In fact, lets stop the list there, with only the plaque, that will be enough of an inventory for me. Yes, that'll do pig, that will do.
Create first, deal with the consequences later.