I have spent many moments thinking about what to write about over the past 6 months or so. In that time I have been published in a respectable scientific journal, but have found little motivation for recreational writing. Without a goal or target in mind, i find writing to be much like a “crank”.
Hold. This was the segue i needed today, as the craze of “planking” hits the media i show my disgust of, and contempt for, it by mentioning my views on “cranking”.
The “crying-wank”. It is sad and pathetic but you are left satisfied afterwards. You have imagined an ex-girlfriend at a tender point in a then perfect relationship. You have pictured yourself in her perfect arms, her perfect body, your perfect rhythm. The impulse for a Crank only hits when you are a t a low point. You focus on all the little things; her hair, her pubic hair, the smell of her hair, the way her hair moves when you move her. You delve even deeper into the depressive territory that separates a Crank from a wank, you imagine her eyes, and the feeling of her looking into your eyes. You know you are about to have a Crank, and you know that you will feel like a low down Cranker afterwards, but your train of thought and blood flow has gathered too much steam so you continue.
You imagine the hope. The hope of a future that you know you will now never have. You imagine her thighs. For some Crankers these are large thighs. In the cases of these Crankers, the shame and emotional self loathing is most venomous. You continue to immerse yourself in the feelings and sensations of times gone past and start proceedings. You look away from an imagined mirror in front of yourself, your head turns to the side as if evading your own gaze in shame. The feelings and thoughts become reality. A particular moment is stark in your mind. A sequence of a particular embrace manifests itself in your memories and your palm. The feelings are conflicting, you want release but the emotion is holding you back. Insight into your failure, her failure, and the hope once felt makes the ongoing climax fade. The Crank makes you work harder. The harder you work the more the Crank takes hold. You want to, but a tear and a sob are growing just behind the lust and animal need.
The flickering images of these better times oscillate in time with your Crank. As the feeling gains intensity, so your gonadal pressure builds. Paradoxically, a Crank offers intense physical release. It comes at the cost of extreme self pity and loathing. A high price is charged by the mind for a Crank. As the body charges onward, fuelled, ironically, by the emotional power of these memories and sentiments, the mind recoils, understanding the hopelessness and feelings of isolation that will overtake the Cranker at the moment of truth. You know this is going to happen. Images of ankles, thighs, belly button, neck, of a hand clenched, of toes curling, battle feelings of regret, remorse, jealousy and pain for supremacy in the perceived reality of the Cranker. As the race finishes, you realise you have no choice but to have both.
A tear escapes, and so does everything else. You have subjected yourself to yet another Crank.
There is hope though. For some of us the Crank is a thing of the past. A remnant from a time when you thought the world was a sad place. So sad that you would lie down really stiff on random stuff in an attempt to be creative? Not for me. One person in the world of planking is funny; the person who made it up. Everyone else is not. But, even plankers have hope. They can always have a Crank.
