This is My Brain. This is My Brain On Me.

Sleeping Gypsy - Henri Rousseau

I used to work with a manager who smelled like bowling shoes.

There the comparison sat until one day I took a shit that smelled like bowling shoes. I then realized that the manager smelled like shit. He seemed to possess good hygiene habits, so something must have been wrong with his biochemistry.

Why did I bring that up? I'm not really certain. It's similar to a very recent, rather strange occasion when I was sitting at my computer, reading news, and I became drowsy. For some reason, perhaps a garbled bit of instantiated prose resulting from my twilight brain state, something I read triggered a fugue of memories.  And not just any memories.

You know how when you have a particularly vivid set of dreams and you wake up and think to yourself "I really need to remember this as it is all just too bizarre not to be forgotten"? And so you manage to hang on to the memories, replaying them to keep them fresh, but invariably they fade away.

Well, this was as if those forgotten memories flooded back, from several months worth of dreams, but piecemeal, in no order, and all accompanied with a sense of urgency and importance. And more than just the memory, the intact experience, the sensory and somatic part as real as the usual weird hillbilly logic of incongruent visions and thoughts. And it all lasting perhaps ten to fifteen seconds and then gone, whoosh, like a runaway freight train had passed by.

And I thought to myself "Okay, now it starts. Old age or schizophrenia, I'm going nuts".

All downhill from here on out, I guess.

Hopefully, I'll be able to generate some decent art out of this decline...