The Apology Conundrum: Episode I

Or; On How Not to Transcend Defence Mechanisms

An Apology Rebound

Well, it’s the day after Slimelight: Alien Nation and I’m facing yet another snag.

An ethics-and-etiquette snag.

I’m trying to work out whether I need to apologise to Miss Gold for not having apologised to her (as yet), and whether I need to apologise to Rachel Redfern for having made an apology this morning which was totally unnecessary, and one which could have been deemed to be rude.

You can see my dilemma.

If I apologise to Miss Gold, and it’s not required, I could make matters worse, like the Rachel-dimension, but if I don’t apologise and it is necessary, which I think it is (and rather overdue), then I’m guilty of an even worse moral blunder – not recognising, or apologising, for one’s genuine mistakes.

With the Rachel-R-dimension, as you shall soon see, I can always be relied upon to achieve the total opposite of my intentions, which rather compounds my moral decision to make amends with Miss Gold.

..

I remain a bit stumped.

…

I know, I’ll see if Puck can make amends by untying this ethical knot in another picaresque ramble.

Health Warning

Now, dear readers, if you’re curious as to how this snag has come about, then you’re welcome to come this way.

However, there is a health warning:

It will involve taking another insufferable trip into my world of social blundering, neuroses, and failed attempts to understand my vulnerabilities.

Enter, or exit now, eh?

Your choice.

…

Deep breath.

Here goes.

…

An epistle, if you please:

Dear Rachel and Miss Gold,

I am very sorry for being a complete knob.

I’ll explain why I think a sincere apology is necessary forthwith, if you have the patience, time, and willingness to read on, which you probably don’t;- particularly considering I’ve come to the conclusion that’s it’s impossible to apologise without trapping myself in the comfort zone of my habitual cluster of psychological defence mechanisms.

Yours sincerely,

Alexander.

Terribly Mature. Honest.

To be polite to readers still willing to read further (and particularly to Rachel R. and Miss Gold in case they've bizarrely chosen to read on), I thought I’d disclose exactly which defence mechanisms are characteristic of my behaviour, so you can be fully on your guard!

A ’framing’ device, if you will.

They are:

1) Sublimation

2) Humour

3) Dissociation

4) Intellectualisation

5) Regression

6) Splitting

Notice I’ve put the ‘mature’ mechanisms first?

This way, I can attempt to feel better about myself.

I've put the 'immature' ones, like regression, last, in the vain hope of silencing them.

'Mum's the word', eh?

(Ooh dear. An Oedipal pun! I hope, dear readers, you didn't get blindsided by that one.)

Mind you, the section subtitle is a bit juvenile, I’m pleased to say.

https://mynotes4usmle.tumblr.com/post/79414239792/freuds-defense-mechanisms-all-of-them-are

A Slimy F.F.Frrrenzy Anniversary:

Or; A Major Monsoon

So it’s officially a year since the Slimelight: Four Floor Frenzy; - a night that heralded the onset of the most fulfilling, transformative, and authentic year of my life. (If, unlike Peter York, you're into the whole authenticity thing.)

The night I met Warren and ‘Disaster Dave’!

I tell you, ‘Disaster Dave’ keeps me grounded.

And Warren keeps me uplifted.

I don’t know which way to jump.

More on that, sideways.

(Rhizomatic, darling, rhizomatic).

Anyway:

I’m galvanising my spirits for an 8-hour rave-across-the-line at Slimelight: Alien Nation!

Little did I know that, 5 hours into the rave, I was going to develop my own minor eco-system.

I’m going to generate a mobile humidity that will escalate into a major monsoon.

I’m going to cause environmental danger to any Slimelight Sabbath-room dancer within my spatial sphere of influence!

Hauntings

The day before Slimelight: Alien Nation I’m haunted (all day long) by whether I need to apologise to Miss Gold.

I’ve made a 7” (Radio Edit) version of a 12” (Extended) narrative that, in hindsight, has unwittingly altered the ideological positioning of the persona-narrator.

I’ve proved that I’m a total Zero in my 12” version, rednering it a resounding artistic success, but my 7” version appears to have erased the self-deprecating irony, blithely objectified Miss Gold (by means of the fragmentation of the female body via the ‘male gaze’), and, in turn, has done a deep disservice to a self-reliant trailblazing pioneer.

Making a blunder is one thing but being a complete prick quite another.

I much prefer being a Zero.

At least that makes me invisible!

Unseen.

Unheard.

Put out to pasture.

Placed beyond pasture.

Into the wilderness.

But I've recently learned from the Allen and Kaori TG attendance register, (which you can read about by doing a sideways move here: https://www.nocturnal-picaro.com/post/the-zero-complex-chapter-0000), that I'm not a Zero. I'm visible.

Exposed in plain sight.

Shit.

So, on Friday, I’m haunted by the dogged steps of lacerating conscience which echo and rebound through the streets of whatever London by-way or sly-way I tread.

All day.

This is worse than Dorian Gray hallucinating the peering eyes of Basil Hallward during his East London jaunt!

It’s all strictly downhill from here.

I wish I had an attic in which to hide my unpunished behind.

But if I did hang a magical portrait up there, I'd look like a right arse.

Making a Fuss

Now, before we get on to an important cameo of Disaster Dave’s ritualised mockery of my failed Ian McCullough quiff, I need to add a few spicy anti-climactic details to safely shore-up the narrative exposition!

I’ve managed to achieve, on the same day as my haunted imaginings, a hugely excitable fuss of uncontainable anticipation regarding Slimelight: Alien Nation DJ-set-times on Instagram.

Why it doesn’t occur to me that I’m setting myself up for another humiliation, heaven knows.

The amount of times my favourite DJs have been playing simultaneously in different rooms has increased recently with a concerning regularity.

Think of the rummy affair of Jxn Coco and Jonny Slut overlapping at the last Monster Queen!

The existential sacrificial dismemberment I endured that night was quite something!

I’ve been seriously considering whether to pen numerous epistles of complaint to audiences that aren’t there.

Anyway:

It’s the day before Slimelight: Alien Nation and I’m pestering away, asking for the set times of Ludmilla Houben, Rachel Redfern, and Less Than Human.

Fingers crossed and all shall be well!

It’s summer!

It will all work out!

If it doesn’t, I’m going to be abhuman, post-human, ahuman, non-human, seriously more-than-less-than human, or an innocent but inconvenient discombobulated megamix of all of ‘em!

…

[to be continued, sideways, ‘if, like a crab, you could go backward’…]