Six o’clock. In the black of eyes closed, pre-dawn meditation I notice a Chinese character. CGI perfect, orange, with no flourish in the font. No movement, no sparkle. It morphs slightly—larger and more complex now. If the first one meant ‘house’, maybe this version is ‘country house’. I wonder, is this is an aura? No, there’s no twinkle, no shimmer. Morphs again—now a maze of pathways. Again—now taking up a quarter of my dark lids with convolutions, twists and turns. Movement, shimmer—I knew it. Mr. Migraine has arisen. I didn’t know he was Chinese.
John Lee Hooker plays on Pandora while I attempt to create something positive for the world with the keyboard. I’m cutting a pastry when it hits—the geometric, angular shapes of electric colors signaling the funk which will come shortly, the second in two days. Weeks ago, I wrote a poem poking fun at Christians, “God is not testing you with adversity—it-just-is.” Well, I’ve changed my mind slightly—the Universe seems to be testing me—or trying to get something out of me.
She had her tortured geniuses—those who went insane, jumped the bridge, ‘faced’ the shotgun, knifed the wife. Would they have been as brilliant without their tormenter? The Universe may be going about it all wrong in my case. I can’t save the fucking world if I can’t think. ‘Neurological Even,’(see, I left the ‘t’ off, ‘event’). One time I made a whole pour-over coffee one migraine-morning—with cold water—didn’t realize it while doing. And trying to talk, make a point with folks—the words don’t come. Sort of a portent(had to look that up, had the verb form at first) to my first stroke maybe ten future years from now. Well, at least I have that go’in for me.
I think I’m going to dump my shit and go to a shack in the forest. Don’ care which forest, could be a mountain in Japan or a tropical rainforest. Eating is the problem. I don’t want to kill stuff. Maybe I’ll pull and eat wild carrots and mushrooms (if I can figure out which ones won’ kill me). Maybe a kindly farmer will share some tofu and farmhouse sake or saison. Maybe a feral poet squatting on your property is good luck. I’d certainly keep illegal loggers away, if not the evil spirits.
(& just as I’m about to hit ‘Publish’ number 3 in 3 days hits . . . Thank you UniversE!)