Skip to main content

Body Heat

I am a very warm fellow, physically. I can heat a one-bedroom apartment with just the waste heat that oozes off me. I twitch a lot and have lots of random movement as well – it all makes me wonder why I weigh 230 lbs – maybe I eat too much and don’t get enough activity. It’s a real mystery.

I’ve always been hot – people who know talk about it all the time, “He’s no ball of fire on the outside, but his brain seems to be melting as we speak.”

(I like cold feet turned against me in bed, though I try to play hard to get based on my history.)

I cared for a lady in the hospital and as she was dying I held her hands in mine. Her last words were, “My, your hands are toasty.” Then she died.

I like to think I let her go, but since I worked in an Intensive care unit, I probably ripped her gown off, shot her full of speed and pounded on her chest.

Memory is a fickle thing, but I do remember her smile as she held my hands, without a care in this world, focused on the heat.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Explain nothing, except your self

Explain nothing, except your self. I feel like the last of a tribe struggling to keep my identity a secret from the mob, one step ahead at best, reduced to hiding in bushes from the monsters waiting to snag and devour me. Sort of a delicacy and a poison – a non-specific drug that exudes memes instead of hormones and physical highs – subconscious, primitive analog get-off-ness apparently responsible for some weird competitive advantage consolidating over geological time out of our mixed genus ancestors, or maybe Texans. At the same time, I feel like spasmed dots from gods own printer cartridge ejaculated onto the canvas of a great emptiness, the thought of which is expressed in the three-dimensional representation of the position I’m braced into while doing the splatting -- all hologram like but only juicier and used -- like an in and out burger wrapper chewed on by a trashcan opossum. Or better, a goat in a pickup heading for a quinceanera debating Schrödinger with the

Free Willy

“…Some say it's just a part of it We've got to fulfill the book.” B. Marley Before I completely run away from the point, the subject of this essay is free will, or, more accurately, the illusion of free will. It will be interesting to see if free will even comes up laterally over the next few hundred words now that I’ve set it up as a specific goal.  The imp of the perverse makes it a sure thing that I won’t – but that surety might also double back and force  me to stay on point. There are no dogs to pick  in this fight and it’s not a fight,  and if I’m right, none of this is anything but documentation for a litigious god that will never see it. Like quantum mechanics, life is about either time or place, never both, and how we choose to pretty up our choices is neither the point, or even a choice – it’s after the fact punctuation we use to justify and make sense of our ontological messiness.  (Science has proven that we decide things with our body before the brain