Sitting in Peets sipping from a hot cup of morning courage laced with cocoa, cinnamon, and doused with cream, I’m waiting for inspiration. Of course, you never receive inspiration when you’re ready for it. Inspiration likes to ambush you when you are least prepared, preferably when you’re in the shower with shampoo in your hair or hiking in the woods just as soon as your cellphone battery dies – without access to a keyboard. I’ve forgotten how to use pen and paper. I can only press fingerpad to plastic key, two fingers at a time, and only online – into little blank white boxes with a cursor that blinks obscenely at me, daring me to type. My muse is a perverse asshole with garlic in his e-heart and spiders in his e-soul. Blast all online sites! Blast all e-people to e-Hades! I am ready to become a Luddite. I will never understand what happens, what causes the colloidal suspension in the transfer of data when iMind interfaces with webpages, but its everfuckedness is certainly one of the great universal constants upon which humanity can unerringly rely!
Here in the analog world, people around me are steeped in thought, the baristas are talking about city rats they have encountered on their daily walks, some clueless bitch is broadcasting her dating woes via cellphone at decibels levels that could drown out a squadron of F/A-18 Hornets, the in-wall speakers here are snap-crackle-popping jazz – bee-bop to be precise, though I don’t recognize the artist, I am usually at the bifurcation of Jack & Shit when it comes to identifying all but the rarest musicians; at the corner of Polk & Vallejo, I spy with my little eye a homeless guy, wearing dementia as a disguise – most obviously a Lectoid straight from Planet 10 by way of the 8th Dimension, who is trying with some degree of success to swallow himself whole.
And I? Well…there’s one me looking out from inside; and another me looking in from outside. The former with eyes wide open, staring at sunlight as it blares its trumpet off the windows of parked and passing cars alike. The latter with mind’s eye, swiveling in its socket like a demented slot machine trying to decide if it is a bonafide thought it’s peering at, or just another virtual brick in a well-constructed wall of self-consciousness’ illusions; just some sleight of hand performed by a pre-programmed mental Houdini that uses ego as a prop in an evolutionary trick staged with smoke and mirrors.
Biological imperatives and cultural mandates be damned, I am what I am – and what I am is teeming! My skin suit is too tight, I’m ready to strip it off, turn my bones into honeycomb, let the four winds blow away the seeds of my dandelion head. I’m so tired of being restrained, constrained by this corporality. I want to ride the tide until I find you, until I enter you through osmosis. I want to be your consumption. I want to be the virus that infects your heart, fills your cells with copies of myself until your blood streams with want, until your skin crawls with the infection of my recombinant scrawl, until you breathe, cough, itch, bleed nothing but me.
Closed Captioned For The Thinking Impaired 