It was without horkles. It was without swordsweppers. It was without bamblers, dabfraddlers, and pleeglopters. It was even without the glirthiest, lorkfleemiest, positively yurgsplarbziggiest shade of theshleberries.
But, mostly, it had everything else you could think of. Such… More
It was without horkles. It was without swordsweppers. It was without bamblers, dabfraddlers, and pleeglopters. It was even without the glirthiest, lorkfleemiest, positively yurgsplarbziggiest shade of theshleberries.
But, mostly, it had everything else you could think of. Such is the wild of the Pacific NorthWest that I have just escaped.
It all changed the other night. Well, normally night, but in this country, when night is happening in most other places, day is still happening. By all proper clock readings and reasonable latitudes, it was night. I was set to freedom once more, caging away the good-timeyness inside me, up to a healthy size after days of nothing but. Splits of my brain were arguing with each other on whether to more closely watch the cheeriness or focus on the here & now: flying. As in, The heck outta here.
Meaningful pause.
The clamor in my head resolved to flapping my arms very intensely, which I will not describe to you. I set to floating extremely skyward, shooting stars from my shoes, possessed by a glowing blue wig, so stringy and unkempt that it would have certain demographics of street hippies reconsider their methods of haircare(lessness). I tipped a few funnel cake stands on the way up, mostly because it was convenient to do so, but partly because it was really convenient to do so. And, yet, I couldn't help but notice an enormous wad of sunbleached humanity applauding me below. Or were they heaving swear words as high as they could with throats? Either way, I jettisoned several glistening orbs of loogie in their general viscinity, and with a gesture that so totally meant I was being friendly, I was off.
I glided. I tumbled. I sang and cartwheeled about the open-mouthed sky, dazzling sunlight playing upon my cheekbones. I gazed into the wise, contorting faces that sprung from the floor of the clouds, adopting mid-air poses that there are no words for in all languages that matter, while a murder of baby ducks, disguised as crows, instantly dropped dead from the sky. All two hundred and twelve of them.
[img]http://www.v710.org/pics/albums/userpics/10013/smile.jpg[/img]
A large plane drifted by upside-down, presumably unintentionally but otherwise perfectly functional, when I was suddenty plagued with the pangs of a humble mind, of a soft heart, of a...a...an operational soul!! AIIEEEE! Cheer broken loose! I'd been hijacked! Each part of my brain would have had complex conniptions for dropping watch if they were able. Each part of my brain, after having thrown their complex conniptions as far as they could, then would've found a scapegoat to blame, and blame hard, in a reputaiton-destroying sort of way on par with the social fallout of a gangly nerd wailing on the schoolyard bully and winning, if they were able. But each part of my brain was useless. What can be done against cheer run amok? What horrible things would it do to me?
This irritating tingle, this floating blood, sprinting through my veins, a kind of blood with feathers in its cap, or caps, depending on how you anthropomorphize blood...whatever it was, it sent a firework into my usually quiet nightsky canvas with a bursting realization: I can be stirred. I can be comfortable in the presence of other creatures, however bizarre they may be, and everything can be okay. Each spurting tingle of the bombthought seared deep into me, and I could hear the folds of my mind peeling back to reveal a memory, a bright one, of these creatures, these people who are not merely flesh-colored robots...but, well, people. A real kind, fresh and storebought. They made a story of my head, or what was in it, where others would've made a single pebble in the ship canal, futile. It was another installment in our continuing adventures together...but there was more to be written, much more, for later. In the meantime, their faces wisped. Man, was I high or what?
All the way down to my very warp & woof was I generally flicked with this sparkling, hideous thought. People, the thought kept repeating. Yes? People? So what? A pointy spoon rack smothered my casual rebuttal and motioned the thought to continue. People, it said again, is a destination. "It's where you always depart, and always return to, what you are measured with." Oh, how charming. A hidden talent for writing Oprah episodes. It was after that mental remark that I received a bruise the size of a large baby from that goony-faced spoon rack. Ow. Focus then turned to the chiming chorus raging from the depths of this blinding daydream like a rising flash flood, until I blinked and replaced myself back into the sky. I was cloud high once more, face full of pulpy bugs, and my eyeballs erupting. The imploding lobotomy was almost complete.
(People. Yes, you. Why are you after me? Who are you? And how come your feet are so oppressive?)
The cheer steered my awkward and clumsy shell, my reckless and graceful shell around fixtures of sky, corkscrewing through the inkish void in an extreme manner that forced my stomach to abandon ship for a swifter, less painful suicide. I shot rainbows from my pinky fingers, or were they missiles, as all was extending from me. My nerves whirred furiously while my brain was gone fishing. Empty cockpit. All things that before seemed imagination were now becoming dependable. There are going to be serious repercussions for all this, said a new thought as the old one left, probably feeling enough damage was done as to merit some sort of substantial interior decorating award.
And, quite abruptly, like the steepest suicide plunge water slide wearing slippery shorts, I plummeted. And fast. It became a tight spiral, down towards familiar looking mountain country, which was where I was to nestle.
The earth seemed to be in on the conspiracy against my reality. I cushied a seat on the ground after a serious freaking drop, leaving my middle toe aimed in the wrong direction (it came to eventually), and could barely take a sniff of stability when perception started bouncing higher. My old thought seemed to be assaulting the universe that moment. Trees began to fly. Oceans were leaping (well okay, mountain reservoirs). The wind flailed its arms like a man trapped in a wig. Even some ninkampoop waving a wand around, feeling a little too cheeky, yelped "Head for the hills," and then all the hills had heads. Apparently the cosmos, and perhaps this dude with a stick, was having quite a yuck at my expense. Governing rules of existence? Yes, they were on the very same fishing trip as my brain. They secretly dislike each other, though.
You know, there really isn't a point with this part. Maybe there is, but if you'd like to skip to the end, feel free. But there will be no monster waiting for you there. Only more exposition.
((launch pad to jump to The End))
(H) <-- for my private chopper
It is likely that I was not fit for the world that day, having just escaped like I did, but it's equally conceivable that all of creation just suddenly became allergic to me. I was used to this feeling in social environments, but not with so much positivity swishing between my ears. A rhythm developed from the chaos around me, and I believe that was when I became way insane. All occupying thoughts in my head were evaluated similarly. In such bare-knuckled spirits, I just had to clobber that ninkampoop with a frying pan.
The inescapability of my mental surgery became clear when an old thought spidered through a crack in the mind and panged back, slandering me with sticks and stones I'd only heard before in back alley Germany. Is it hard to understand why, in my gallant mood, I devoured this thought like a poodle? I should hope not.
My brain returned (without fish), newer, repurposed, ready to be smart and maybe rewire itself to 'tolerate' mushrooms. It was wrenched with experience and possibility, guided by my new think. I'm going to write think as a noun. I don't practice it properly, so why use it properly in a sentence? Yeah, these are all traits of this new brain of mine. It was the first really noticeable change to my being I'd undergone since the Great Someone, one day too long ago, decided to open a window of light and sound and complication on me without permission, forcing me to shine with the courage of motion to shake the devil free ever since, to deposit it in a dark corner somewhere. My entire life ago. Things were settling in their own way.
The world shimmied one last time. I think it was exhausted. Stone trolls emerged from my ears, bleary-eyed and wobbly-headed, telling their friends later that their stomach had taken a left when the rest of them took a right. Their lives were changed. African elephants hopped off the ashtray moon and organized the clean-up of the party the earth threw. They finished by spraying their bellies with brown goo. Some party effects, however, were irreversible. For instance, a planetary orbit was skipped with all that cosmic grooving on Earth, triggering tidal waves on Mars in their underground seas, thrashing the Legion of Doom summer camp and Jimmy Hoffa's seaside cabana. The death toll was in the teens. They were all evil dogs. They did not go to heaven.
Also triggered was me frolicking. I couldn't help myself. The coup d'etat on my synapses was a rousing success. I...loved Big Brother. I mean, I...guess I really am one of them. Popular emotions did not exclude me this time. I was home, far away from Those Who Are Different, prepared to embark upon more adventures with them whenever that kind of day swings my way again. And whenever I can get to flying so niftily.
((landing area for The End))
I just escaped the Pacific NorthWest. It's wicked wild. And rather resembled an asylum. But still, it was a place without dorgblirflies...how good could it really be?
