12.4.11

I listen to the song Street Spirit (Fade Out) by Radiohead followed by Dissolved Girl by Massive Attack - a gin and tonic mixture that pulls to the surface of my thoughts the heavy elements of myself. "Immerse your soul in love," the one says. And then the other, "say, say my name; need a little love to ease the pain." The rending pleas of the first song melting slowly into the smooth trip-hop vibes of the second; hurting and then meditating; exhausting and then resting.

My body accepts the sounds and meanings with varied opinions. I find it strange how it seems like I am so many people at once.

My feet can barely hear the music - the right foot curls its toes under and then stretches them back again, the left lays silent with the chair leg wedged in between the second and third toe. They remind me that they are bare and cold, but they do not complain, they simply inform. After several minutes, I notice that my right foot has been softly kicking to the slow beat; seems like it could hear after all. As for the left, the chair leg is now wedged between my fourth and pinky toe and the foot is jittery - it gets like that when the silver bell from my privates starts ringing.

My privates, at regular intervals, are tapping on a silver bell to signal that a trip to the toilet is preferable. However, I will ignore the bell for another 30 minutes or so during which time the bell will slowly transform into a large campanile and my small intestines into a gigantic metal hammer, pounding in less frequent, but more violent intervals until I finally traverse the 10 ft. or so from where I sit to the bathroom. Due to the distraction, my privates are not very responsive to the music, though, ironically, my efforts to soothe their insistence largely involves rocking and swaying to the various beats. I wonder if my privates are fooled. Probably not. That's okay though, I have other techniques I can use if things get bad.

My hands hear the music and are occasionally given to tapping, but they are mostly involved in typing, scratching my scalp, supporting my head when it bows to the side to think, and waiting. Other less frequent occupations include scraping at the small scabs on my face, pulling out loose eyebrow hairs, rubbing my eyes, texting, dislodging earwax, and cracking my knuckles; picking and rubbing my nose is also a favorite, but my nose seems pretty clean at the moment.

32 minutes later and the bells have stopped ringing, the alleviating comfort of their echoes fading into a peacefully empty rest.

My nose itches. My nose always itches. And what is more, my nose and I hate each other. Well, I guess that's unfair to say: I'm not completely sure as to my nose's feelings toward me. I posit one of three scenarios:

1. My nose does, in fact, hate me. Like Satan himself, the little devil lives to annoy me and buffet me with its itching, hurting, flowing, snotting, sniffling, aching, sneezing reminders that it, like a malignant tumor, has attached itself to my face in order that, one day, it might destroy me. It cackles and giggles in disgusting evil as it sucks dust and pollen into its ample caverns, purposefully looking for excuses to produce exorbitant amounts of snot such that any normal activity becomes a red-nosed, red-eyed, red-tempered venture into hay-fever hell. Even as I type, I can feel the demon cantering through the my nasal causeways, wielding a cheese grater the size of a thimble and scraping it against the interiors of my sinuses. "Curse you!" I say as I sniff, rub, and type some more.

2. My nose has severe mental challenges. This is the more benign ascription of my nose's pitiful attempts to actually be a nose. Perhaps it just doesn't know quite how to do it: wet and weepy it tries it hardest to smell and breathe, but for some reason just doesn't make the connection that its constant flow of secretions just doesn't help. It's like a toddler making a magical potion using all the things he or she can find in mommy and daddy's medicine cabinet - the sentiment is pure, but the methods and result disgusting, terrifying, and infuriating. To be honest though, I tend to lean towards this explanation only when I am seriously considering blowing off my nose with the nearest handgun.

3. My nose is a melodramatic manic depressant. Like a teenager alcoholic, my nose weeps with a deep sense of loneliness and confusion as it throws up again and again into the nearest toilet. Though sometimes cheerful, my nose has only to think about the crunching of fall leaves or fresh cut grass in order to fall back into and wallow through the mire of mucus and allergenic sobs of an addiction-inspired depression. It can't help itself and yet wishes it could, and it doesn't know why. The poor soul is doomed to a life of noncommittal solitude as it drinks glass after glass of Benadrylic cocktails only to vomit their contents in violent retribution once the non-drowsy buzz has worn off. This explanation can provide some pity and even empathy, but you must understand that patience soon wears thin when you're the one being puked on.

The music is over now and I must leave: a different kind of bell is ringing. More of a gong, actually.