I'm About To Delete Yet Another Post
I’m about to delete yet another post when my bedroom door explodes inward and a booming voice says,”DON’T TOUCH THAT BUTTON!”
Shit. It’s management. They’re onto me.
Ready to drop the bomb, my finger hovers over the keyboard.
“Ah. Last time. I promise.”
“That’s what they all say.”
The suit standing in the doorway pulls out a stunner. The gun jerks in his hand.
Ka-chink!
The electrified dart whizzing toward my face in slow mo cuts a new part line in my hair before embedding itself in the wall.
“Wait! Don’t I get a chance to explain?”
Thwack!
Another dart. Another near miss.
“I’m obsessing, that’s all. Let me set it free!”
Thwock!
Feathers burst from the pillow to my left.
“If it doesn’t feel real, then what’s the point of saving - “
The next dart catches me in the throat and I go down.
Because I am paralyzed and drooling on the floor, I don’t get the chance to explain that I am not Kerouac - that writing really is rewriting.
Only wet sounds escape my mouth.
I don’t get the chance to pledge allegiance to the creative and all her whims - good or bad.
Don’t get the chance to detonate the home made bomb that I carry around in my backpack.
The suit’s shadow falls over me.
“Agent West, you are in violation of Acts 365, 367, and 369 of the Bloggers Code. Thou Shall Not Repost, Thou Shall Not Blog About Blogging, and Thou Shall Not Publish Before It Is Time. How do you plead to these charges?”
“Ack!”
“Right then. Guilty as charged.”
Heavy footsteps sound in the hall.
“Another unrepentant sinner, boys.” The suit says to unseen troopers. “Lets haul his sorry ass in for reprocessing.”
*
That was two days ago.
I can remember them dragging me out of the house and strapping me into an awaiting gurney.
Everything after that is a blur.
The endless hallway - white on white on blinking white. A cursor moving backwards through my life. A doctor made of pink porcelain. A scalpel made from a spiders leg. A staple gun pressed against my tongue. A nurse with an elephants trunk and seventeen arms taking a pencil eraser to my eyes.
And then only voices, “You will learn to own up to the words that you write.” “Click to send -” “Backwards slash” “Dot” “Reply” “Reply” “Reply”
I can’t quite explain the pain one feels when a god constructed solely of punctuation reaches deep into your brain to tweak and rewrite -
But this morning when I woke up in my room, back in my life, the whole incident felt far away.
Instead of fear and trauma, instead of plain freaking out - I felt elation.
I felt better.
Because today, instead of a thousand different doubts pulling me in every direction, there was only one thought in my mind :
No need to change anything. I feel fine.
Posted Sunday, November 16, 2008
I’m about to delete yet another post when my bedroom door explodes inward and a booming voice says,”DON’T TOUCH THAT BUTTON!”
Shit. It’s management. They’re onto me.
Ready to drop the bomb, my finger hovers over the keyboard.
“Ah. Last time. I promise.”
“That’s what they all say.”
The suit standing in the doorway pulls out a stunner. The gun jerks in his hand.
Ka-chink!
The electrified dart whizzing toward my face in slow mo cuts a new part line in my hair before embedding itself in the wall.
“Wait! Don’t I get a chance to explain?”
Thwack!
Another dart. Another near miss.
“I’m obsessing, that’s all. Let me set it free!”
Thwock!
Feathers burst from the pillow to my left.
“If it doesn’t feel real, then what’s the point of saving - “
The next dart catches me in the throat and I go down.
Because I am paralyzed and drooling on the floor, I don’t get the chance to explain that I am not Kerouac - that writing really is rewriting.
Only wet sounds escape my mouth.
I don’t get the chance to pledge allegiance to the creative and all her whims - good or bad.
Don’t get the chance to detonate the home made bomb that I carry around in my backpack.
The suit’s shadow falls over me.
“Agent West, you are in violation of Acts 365, 367, and 369 of the Bloggers Code. Thou Shall Not Repost, Thou Shall Not Blog About Blogging, and Thou Shall Not Publish Before It Is Time. How do you plead to these charges?”
“Ack!”
“Right then. Guilty as charged.”
Heavy footsteps sound in the hall.
“Another unrepentant sinner, boys.” The suit says to unseen troopers. “Lets haul his sorry ass in for reprocessing.”
*
That was two days ago.
I can remember them dragging me out of the house and strapping me into an awaiting gurney.
Everything after that is a blur.
The endless hallway - white on white on blinking white. A cursor moving backwards through my life. A doctor made of pink porcelain. A scalpel made from a spiders leg. A staple gun pressed against my tongue. A nurse with an elephants trunk and seventeen arms taking a pencil eraser to my eyes.
And then only voices, “You will learn to own up to the words that you write.” “Click to send -” “Backwards slash” “Dot” “Reply” “Reply” “Reply”
I can’t quite explain the pain one feels when a god constructed solely of punctuation reaches deep into your brain to tweak and rewrite -
But this morning when I woke up in my room, back in my life, the whole incident felt far away.
Instead of fear and trauma, instead of plain freaking out - I felt elation.
I felt better.
Because today, instead of a thousand different doubts pulling me in every direction, there was only one thought in my mind :
No need to change anything. I feel fine.
Image from ‘The Long Tomorrow’ by Mobieus.
Labels: brain farts