|||||||||||||||||||||||||  Thursday, Simptempter 14, 41 A.B.  |||||||||||||||||||||||||

A thick mind fog rolled in last night while I was sleeping.  It only got thicker after I woke up. It thickened further as the day dragged on.  If it weren't so thick right now, I'd probably be writing about something else.  As it is, it's a wonder that I can write anything at all.

Common reference sources tell me that there are two types of mind fogs, but they don't tell me which go best with Celtic music.  Thus, I can't tell you which goes best with Celtic music, either.  Anything I told you would only be a lie.  Lying is a sin.  All the major religions (and Paul Harvey) say so.  If it's sin you're looking for, best look elsewhere.  (Rascal.)

If you want to know what the two types of mind fog are, however, come closer.  I can be your private dictionary.  I will be your secret weather almanac.  Just run your widening, naked eyes over my stark black words again and again until you truly know the stiffness of my long sentence structure, until you feel the fullness of my meaning coursing deep into your head....

The first type of mind fog occurs when a mass of cold reality passes over an overheated ego.  Lassitude materializes out of thin air more or less the way shit materializes out of a pig that has eaten too many greens.  Both have a way of reducing visibility to zero when they exceed the square root of your life divided by the length of your patience in centimeters.

The second type of mind fog occurs when a low-pressure atmosphere saturated with hope unexpectedly passes over an ancient glacier in the heart.  A cloud of despair rapidly forms and expands in the ventricles and head until safely vented in bad poetry or the heart breaks.  To prevent such clouds from forming, one's cockles should be kept sufficiently warm.  After such a cloud has been safely vented, a certain degree of mental vapor lock is to be expected.

I'm not sure which type of mind fog I enjoyed today.  I'm just glad I had an imaginary friend like Hans to hold my hand as I stumbled through it.


"Let go of my hand.  You're not my type."

Aww, come on, Hans.  It's a cold hand.  It's a clammy hand.  Maybe it'll give you the inspiration you need to finally finish that existential sampler you've been embroidering forever.

"Maybe I'm beginning to understand why Donald Trump has such an aversion to pressing the flesh of his fellow hominids."

It's the hand that harvested another 49 cherry tomatoes today, you know.

"Had you thought to use both hands, you might now be the happy operator of a roadside vegetable stand."

Silly!  You know I had to thrust my other hand out into the air behind me in order to maintain my balance as I picked my little red orbs.

"Tomorrow try picking 49 with a foot instead of either hand and I'll pay you real money just to let me watch."

Oooo, an imaginary friend with real money.  Neat-o!

"Well, it's not really mine.  Your other imaginary friends are just letting me use it in exchange for not telling you exactly what part of your sub-conscious they're hiding behind now."

You mean to say that they've been avoiding me on purpose lately??

"I mean to say that even imaginary friends get tired of associating with people who are content to lead a hand-to-mouth existence."

But I don't lead a hand-to-mouth existence!  I merely like to touch my lips a lot.

"Ummm, have I asked you lately to let go of my hand?"

You know, for someone who continued wearing black turtlenecks long after the Sartre Sartorial Times itself said trench coats were de rigueur, you sure are being particular all of a sudden about what you will and won't allow touch your skin.

"It's obvious that you didn't read that issue of the Times in the original French."

Want to hear what I've been reading instead?

"Until you've read Kierkegaard in the original Danish, it's rather pointless to read anything else at all, don't you think?"

Judge for yourself.  I give you Exhibit A: Infectious Diseases Handbook: 1997-98.  Another of my recent AAUW 50-cent book finds!  Here's just one of its many mind-expanding entries, chosen completely at random (p. 91) -  "Chlamydia psittaci: An obligate intracellular bacterium that is the causative agent of psittacosis, or parrot fever.  Although previously classified as a virus because of its nature as a cellular parasite, it is now regarded as a specialized bacterium due to its many bacteria-like characteristics.  Approximately 50 cases are reported annually in the United States, with 50% occurring in individuals who own pet birds.  Several outbreaks have been reported in turkey processing plants.  Some infected birds appear only mildly ill (anorexia, diarrhea) and the sympathetic pet owner may deliberately increase the amount of physical contact and time spent with the bird, allowing inhalation of dried, infected bird feces.  Prolonged, intimate contact with an infected bird is not necessary for transmission."  And so on and so forth for two pages covering microbiology, epidemiology, clinical syndromes, diagnosis (atypical pneumonia with hoarseness is a special warning sign), and treatment (drugs; drugs; more drugs).  Try getting that info from Kierkegaard!

"You know, if you'd just stick with Kierkegaard in the first place, you'd never get parrot fever."

You're hopeless.

"Yeah, but I was that way long before I read Kierkegaard.  And call me lazy, but I still haven't gotten around to inhaling his dried feces."

Then why do you sound hoarse?



"Idiot American."

Over-educated Euro-trash.

"If only we weren't such a perfect pair."

If only we weren't both imaginary.

"My best to Jester."


"Au revoir."








(©In the Now Moment by D. Birtcher)

(©In the Now Moment correctly by Hans)


"Some days, no matter how softly you play your bagpipes,
your cellmate is still gonna hit you in the mouth."