Cortisone Creme for the Soul

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“The two words ‘information’ and ‘communication’ are often used interchangeably, but they signify quite different things. Information is giving out; communication is getting through.” ~ Sydney J. Harris

I’ve been having trouble communicating lately. I could blame it on the old edgewise word insertion technique but I can find no one with enough time to even talk about that. Veridical? Not in this century. Usta be Instagram was something that went up your nose real fast. I’m still not so sure that it isn’t still that. I was striving for palindrome in that sentence but damned if I didn’t fail, and fail miserably at that. It’s a sad truth that miserable don’t hold no sway in the marketplace, not anymore. It’s pretty much a given . . . . . . where was I headed with that anyway? Don’t tell me. It’ll be easier that way. If you want to communicate with me you’d likely be better off talking to someone else. That way I don’t get a chance to respond, rather, and sadly so, to merely scratch my head and wonder, and to sing under my breath, “Doc, it’s only a scratch”. Now . . . if they only made cortisone creme for the soul. That’s what I’m talking about. It’s all too beautiful. It’s chaotic. It makes me want to sing. Where’s irony when you need it? Baby, bath water, duh.

Now that I’ve got that off my chest I can consider making a pot of coffee , which may well spark up my beleaguered brain. Just a bit.

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The photos I share here today are all about flow, with the river I dip my imaginal feet into, and how my mind grinds to a halt, in a gesture that is so fleeting it endears itself to me eternally. It cools my itchy soul just a tad, and the river wind says “yes, don’t stop now”. I’ve not come to bemoan the heat of summer. There’s enough of that on the streets and in the marketplace; there’s no need to try it at home. Besides, the cat would worry. Humans are such odd critters.

I shared a sweet conversation with a sweet woman yesterday. Somehow the Universe was generous with me and allowed me to speak of my mental illness, the psych meds I take daily, and my propensity to edge toward serenity and slowness. I’m not particularly attached to slowness, it’s just that I end up that way at times. Relaxation is the culprit, but I accept all responsibility. When I go with the flow I get edgy, at which point I start making mistakes, but the edginess is wedged like a screwdriver into the flow of this day and age. The screwdriver betrays its designed purpose, which is to fasten things with its circular motion, and instead impales time, in the name of commerce. Get it? This is my Labor Day edition, in which I implore supervisors everywhere to let their friggin underlings breathe, even if only for a moment. If you let only slackers run free you get what you deserve. Free-range slackers’ll do you in every time. Personally, I love to work fast as long as I am given free reign to relax while doing so. So, what does this have to do with my head glitches and psych meds? I don’t know. I just know that I refuse to have Wheaties and Red Bull for breakfast. I don’t even eat breakfast; it slows me down. Do they even make Wheaties anymore? Wasn’t Bruce Jenner on the box at one time?

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“Dammit Jim, what the hell is the matter with you? Other people have birthdays, why are we treating yours like a funeral?” ~ Dr. McCoy, Star Trek

Actually, my birthday is some six weeks away. I’m not planning on being depressed. I hope to be contemplating turning 60 years old, what it means in the scheme of things, and why the hell I can’t get it into my thick head, yet my body is full-bore involved. Isn’t that a pisser?! I mean, my memory is not what it used to be, but really, I mean, how can I know that for sure. I’m not very good at documentation. There are people who seem yo think that I am not too good at any kind of mentation. Put that  in your pipe and smoke it. Then say, “Whoa, dude, I think I just forgot how to think”. I haven’t had a good smoke in I can’t remember when. Poor me. But . . . here on the upswing from two weeks of depression I stand tall and walk on and all that happy horseshit. My late friend, Brother Phil, used to like to say, “. . . and all that happy horseshit”. Philip died from head trauma. His barstool tipped over backward when he laughed just a little to hard. True story. I remember stuff like that. Those are iconic moments in life. As memories, they get to stay.

“Right now I’m having amnesia and deja vu at the same time.” ~ Stephan Wright

Peace out, y’all, I’m goin’ in. Goof gloriously, k?

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