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Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 25, 2009 || 10:48 pm

these are matters for trees

It is the kind of sick that has me scrambling to suss out my wants, the same wants that with the usual day-to-day me tend to dance out from everywhere; I only have to stretch out my hand and one will alight there, burning and insistent and clear. How do I have so many wants, anyway, when I know better, when I was taught better?

It is the kind of sick that defies every over-the-counter solution I can throw at it; orange juice is tinny and the go-to-sleep stuffs leave me –tossing and insistent about my absolutest of all desires, to slumber dead and hot as a brick oven– what must be the level opposite of unaware.

It is the kind of sick that renders even the most mindless of all television programming so undecipherable as to make me fairly sure that everyone is speaking in lumps and sucking clots of heavy consonants with no vowels to smooth them over and salve my eardrums; here, then, my eyes have no faculties for the reading of lips, so they fix elsewhere…

It is the kind of sick where, flopping and seeking some form of comfort, I end up thoroughly backwards with my head creasing the tangle of heavy, beautiful bedlinens while feet cleverly rest among the branches and leaves of iron that make up my headboard. The eyes (you remember? previously described as fully ignorant in the lipreading department) manage to settle on the early-shedding tree outside my bedroom window. It is so, so black, this tree, and the gentle blue sky that frames it insists that my eyes are keenly correct in their assessment: Black, yes. The tree is black. It is also probably much, much wiser than me and I am content to study it, to push questions at it from my stretched-thin brain.

It is the kind of sick that has me slide amongst thoughts regarding the tiny marchings-about in my body that I (and you as well, most likely) give no pause to ponder on an average day. I remember one time, one time when I was glowing otherworldly and my eyes were glassy in a way that lifted the veil, being able to see the smoky gray cloud that drove itself into my mouth, pouring into my chest and expanding there. I spoke in a monotone fashion, Maxim told me later, a droning, eerie voice that clinically observed these goings-on. I was cataloging them from somewhere else entirely and reporting them back to this plane ‘just in case’. I fell into deep and careful rest before he could make up his mind on whether or not to take me to the emergency room.

It is the kind of sick that has me waving my hand in the timeless gesture of ‘leave me alone’; so great is the tobeleftalone desire that I won’t even call for the popcorn that one of the vertebrae in my spine has so loudly announced that it wants. The vertebra (such a shame!) can’t raise up and signal anyone on its own and even the most cooperative hand (the right one, for the record) won’t do it, no-way-no-how, so the lone spine bone is adrift in melancholy for the want of lightly-buttered, hot, airy-salty goodness. Oh poor bone of yon back! See if there is any more dextromethorphan running around in my system and mount it, quick-smart! There will be plenty of popcorn on down the road; it’s not just every day you get to exceed the maximum recommended dosage of things that require the pharmacist to see your drivers license before selling them to the likes of you.

It is the kind of sick that inclines me to be purely selfish, to take a thick slab of hours midday and leave the office to nap before dutifully returning once I can remember the date and how to write it one more again. In those hours I twitch and forget, twitch and remember, twitch and crack, leaking quiet, saintly tears and a sinner’s best snot….they mingle in my throat, in the three layers of kleenex that it takes to do the job.

It is the kind of sick where things inside of me that have nothing in the least to do with Germ Theory silently stir, rearrange themselves and then settle down to gather what dust they will once again.

It is the kind of sick that causes me to fall away from my pain, examining it…the kind of sick that causes me to question the proximity of that pain to ecstasy, causes me to remember that I am always just one inhalation away from losing them both.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

And in my best shoes I started falling forward down the street

I stopped at a church and jostled through the crowd

And love followed just behind me, panting at my feet

As the steeple tore the stomach from a lonely little cloud

// Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, ‘Darker With The Day’

2 worked it out »

  1. Coelecanth 8.27.2009

    Ouch! When you’re better I’ll thank you for suffering for my entertainment and edification. For now I’ll say get well soon.

     
  2. TwoBusy 9.4.2009

    sweet jesus you can write.

     

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