Rare Air Indeed

I'm drunk tired, I'm pouty 5 year old tired and I can also feel a cold trying to get the better of me. I can feel the cold in my head, my nasal cavities have become a snot factory. I can feel it in my muscles, that cold trying to hold on with shivering vice grip claws so that I have this sort of soft, pervading soreness everywhere. I'm trying to stay positive, but honestly the people I have to talk to on the phone everyday are like a barbarian horde against my great wall of resistance; a barbarian horde with jackhammers.

And while I continue to catalogue how I feel for your non-entertainment, let me say that it's also hard to keep a happy mind frame because it's hard to keep any mind frame. Mind is breaking down. Sounds and ideas are coming in, but very little is actually sticking. My mind begins to get a little passive when I'm like this. And it also starts sloughing off ideas like decimated cells.

Rare air. This floated up from the depths today. It actually came to the front more along the lines of a sentence like:

She indeed breathed a rare air, created it around her. If you were fortunate enough to stand near, you would not only be lifted, but shocked that she didn't seem to notice the difference herself.

See this is the sort of thing that will come out of the mainspring from time to time, like a ribbon of seaweed which has somehow cut loose from the bottom of a deep channel and floats a few feet from the surface to twist in the water filtered sunlight. It's the sort of thing that pops up more frequently when I am consistently writing. It's the sort of thing I will take quick mental glance at, decide whether I want to store it for later use, or whether I want to let that just float on out to sea.

But I find that as I get older, those boxes that I store these things in are moldering in the mental warehouse, they're getting put in places that I cannot find them. There are little brain warehouse gremlins, dressed in overalls with little oval name patches (names like Al), taking boxes and putting them in dark adjoining rooms that I don't know are there.

In that magic last second of my life, that second where I imagine I am infused with all of the knowledge of the universe as a sort of cosmic F you before I shuffle off, I wonder if the warehouse will catch fire and all those lost thoughts and ideas will fall around me in a rain of debris, quickly being devoured by fire. Will I remember some long lost tasteless joke from 7th grade?

Man oh man I hope so, I want to blink out of existence chuckling softly to the 'Big Chief, No Fart' joke.

If you got to take one memory with you as you floated away to nothing, could you pick one?

I think mine would be that of hearing this morning that Britney had another baby boy. Way to go girlfriend, way to go.

Oh, I've also got a craving for Pizza and beer again. And one of those cheapie snack pies, a custard one, vanilla. Thing of it is, I'm not at all hungry.

I was told that radio station KZOK has named this month Zeptember, a month of Led Zeppelin. I wish I would have thought of this myself, but am totally willing to jump on the bandwagon. Let's make today's Zeptember song Custard Pie. Okay?


*p.s. Sending out an extra bolt of love to C&G. I don’t know what the jinx powers regarding this sort of thing are, so vague is how we’ll keep it.