Thursday, July 03, 2008

A summer cold

A summer cold - 2008-07-03 06:03

It was just a cold, and I knew it was coming, so I slathered Karmex around my mouth and nose -- like a decommissioned Orangeman oiling his weapons before burying them in backyards.

I was ready for a war, but not the fever.

Always awake at midnight, just preparing and protecting myself, I became aware that my brain had devolved to a Confederacy of brains scattered throughout my body. I had become folding, bendy, semi-autonomous muscle groups that were allowing me to control my body temperature by become a radiator with fins -- grills and exposures that radiated heat away, while little folded-upon-folded core spots of warmth allowed the rest of the world to freeze in a room with the fan on high -- sort of a centralized, self-contained souls that functioned as ever portable command centers in a war against the fires from hell.

My only goal: Proteins denature at 107 degrees -- I didn't want my brain to melt.

Little duchy’s with real feeling would check in and out with each other -- the back of my knee stretching to pick up a little cold; the soul (not sole-- not any longer) of my foot arching a blanket off slightly, keeping exactly two small toes covered, the exact amount needed to maintain homeostasis -- twitching, and in constant communication, never asleep, just turned off to save energy --I thought, in a moment of sort of clarity, that maybe I should call Uncle Joe to have him give me a neuro check to see if I was OK, cause men in my family get the stupid’s when overwhelmed by disease, but since it was 3 in the morning I thought maybe I didn't need to call at all -- Joe would hold the hour against me, and just the call itself would set unmovable motion into action.

And the next thing I'd know, my sister would be breaking down my door to fix me.
But it was the folding that got me. In my head every though got folded, every movement got bent, every idea got twisted.

Like an onion repealing itself, just a constant, unending folding of thought—a sub intellectual croissant on a baking board, it was like my granny. was making biscuits in my brain.
But I'm much better known, though my chest feels like a truck hit it.

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