Somewhere Over the Scatterbrain...

Today is a fuzzy headed day.

 

I feel like the thoughts in my head are a whirlwind of black birds (not necessarily blackbirds or even crows) spinning in a giant vortex, lifting up high till an errant thought tips the precarious balance and they're dashed against the floor.  They'd be so haphazardly scattered, they'd actually make a pattern.  In the same way you look at clouds and see dragons, you'd look at the remnants of my mind's meanderings and see...

 

What would you see?

 

Smiley faces?  Hell?  Chocolate chip cookies?

 

Who knows.  Not I, said the fly.

 

I don't know what's got my head so muxed ip.  Today is just another day.  There's been no dramas and everyone has been fairly relaxed.  Almost comatose in some cases.  Edna Dullwitch (or 'De Witch' as she's obviously called) did try to steal Boris's (real name's Ben but he likes to put on a Russian accent - for 'intrigue') crusty roll at lunch, I suppose.  That's something like a drama, but once he'd pulled a fistful of curly, frizzy hair from her head, she replaced the roll and scuttled off into the corner to whimper.  Boris put the wrenched clump of fuzz up his sleeve for safe keeping.

 

I don't particularly want to know why he'd keep it.  Perhaps he's building a replica Edna in his room - or even rebuilding the existing one.  Maybe he's claiming various body parts as time goes on.  He'd start off small - the hair, a discarded fingernail and so on.  Then he'd move on to bigger prizes.  An arm.  A leg.  She wouldn't notice one or two limbs missing, would she?  Nah.  It'll be reet.

 

Apart from that, however, the hours have been as lazy as the patients.  It was 8:00 am about fourteen days ago.

 

Perhaps that's why my thoughts are off kilter.  Maybe they're wanting to have a wiz around to try and coax time into joining in.  Or they're hoping to suck up the minutes and send them spinning into the future, dragging us along with it.

 

Or, even, what if my thoughts are Dorothy's tornado?  What if they are building up to snatch houses, girls, dogs and fussy old women on bicycles and throw them into other lands where they save the day, save the munchkins and save a fortune in fuel costs (what with broomsticks and flying monkeys).

 

Or, they could simply be having a fuzzy headed day.  They could simply be having a day where they need to whip themselves up like a dog having a mad five minutes, tail chasing and pigeon worrying.

 

Still, I think I'll have a look out of the window.

 

There might be a rainbow.

Somewhen Over the Rainbow...

Everybody's gotta be somewhere.

That ‘somewhere’ could be over the rainbow, wearing ruby slippers and running from the Wicked Witch.  It could be in a dark alley, running from an attacker, hoping the shadows will hide you, protect you, wrap you in their cloak of warm night.  Somewhere could be sprawled on a sofa watching Coronation Street, with a box of Maltesers and a cup of tea to keep you company, running from the stresses of the day.

But you’ve just got to be somewhere.

Whatever the tensions or reliefs your life may pounce upon to leave at your feet like the half eaten remnants of cat for its beloved owner, you will always find yourself there.

But, what if you didn’t?  What if Somewhere was just the same as, well, somewhere?  That makes perfect sense in my head.  It doesn’t make so much sense written down.  It’s as if the words looked at each other, went ‘Huh?’ and fell about laughing.

I mean, somewhere could be Oz, an alley or on your sofa.  But what if actually being in a place at all was something you could choose?  What if you could take yourself out of PLACE completely?  WHERE was a pin on a map and all you needed to do was step off the map into nowhere?  The Wicked Witch and the potential attacker would never find you.

Granted you’d also not be able to buy Maltesers or tea bags.

But, what if?

Would you float in darkness?  Would there be a sort of murky light, hinting at the periphery of your vision so you weren’t sure if it existed at all or if your mind was simply filling in gaps it thought your brain had suddenly realised had appeared?  Would you feel substance?  Would you feel?

I suppose you wouldn’t.  I suppose your senses wouldn’t be able to take that step with you and would have to mill around on the precipice, passing the time by playing leap frog with each other and games of I Spy.  Not that you would know what Time was, of course.  Not that Time would know what Time was, either.  Nowhere would have to be nowhen, too.  Time would have nothing to hold on to.  Nothing to stroke with its decaying touch.

Would you find yourself standing in a crowded room, surrounded by the spirits of those who had lived and passed, each waiting for something that couldn’t happen because waiting was wasted when there was no Time to count the passing seconds.  Or seconds to count.

Fears and foes would be unable to reach you there.  So would wit, wishes and wonder.  Good and bad, opposite sides of a tossed coin curling in the air, could only watch as you spun endlessly in a field of emptiness.

Everybody’s gotta be somewhere.

But what if...?  Nah.  There’d be nowhere to plug in your kettle.

Here Comes the Easter Bunny...

It's Easter soon.  With it comes Easter bunnies, chicks and chocolate.  I am, actually, looking forward to it.

 

Often, in here, a smidgeon of effort is thrown at holidays and the like.  If that smidgeon sticks, bonus.  If not, as is usually the case, it misses, leaving only a trace of said effort.  The trace generally tends to be a bit too gloopy and so slides off leaving a pool of wishful thinking on the floor at our feet.

 

This Easter, however, Jeremy is involved.  Much, I'm sure, to the irritation of Connors, Jezzer wants to put a smile on our faces.  The weather outside has been as dismal as the food inside - grey and bland and uninspiring - and this has affected our moods.  Now, you may think we're all happy and smiling and a-dancing all the day.  We're not.  Sorry to disappoint.  Likewise, we're not entirely miserable, staring into space (or corners), staring at each other, not staring at anything because our eyes were closed and we were shambling about the Recreation Room bumping into thing.

 

That last one was Penny Pocket, the riotous rocket.  She thought it would be funny to close her eyes and pretend she was blind.  She shuffled around, not looking or caring where she was going.  This was fine and even humorous until she happened to stand on Jersey's toes.  Jersey, a dirty oil rag of a man and one of the more unpleasant orderlies, pushed her back with an angry shout and an angrier look.

 

Penny fell back, eyes still closed, laughing.  Then she stumbled against one of the chairs.  As they're bolted to the floor, the chair didn't move, so Penny fell sideways, her body twisting.  She hit her head as the rest of her hit the floor.  Penny Rocket was no longer as riotous as she had been.  She also didn't need to pretend to be blind.  The blow to her head had sorted that one for her.  How generous.

 

Jersey thought it served her right.  We all thought Jersey should be served.  To a lion.  Or cannibal.  Or a rumbling volcano.

 

But good ol' Jeremy has come to our rescue this Easter.  He, personally, bought everyone an Easter egg.  Even when chocolate eggs can be had three for a fiver nowadays, it would still have been a substantial purchase.  He's even gone so far as to remember Chloe is dairy intolerant so has to have a dairy free one and Boris Phenaligan, ex-pentathlete and substance abuser, only likes dark chocolate.  Jeremy is like that.  He knows you.  He wants to know you.  He wants to make your stay comfortable and as happy as it can be under the circumstances (you're in an asylum, fed slop and 'care' is something you'll have to look up in the dictionary)..

 

Jeremy knows I liked Minstrels.  He's bought me an egg which comes with two bags of the sweets.  Easter Sunday, when he'll give us our eggs, seems forever away.

 

Not only that, but he has organised an Easter hunt.  I have no idea how he's managed to garner permission for such a thing, but little fluffy chicks and rabbits - not real ones, of course, are going to be hidden around the asylum.  The Recreation Room, canteen, even the toilets will host tiny balls of fluffy fun.

 

Of course, this could backfire.  I don't want to be pessimistic, simply realistic.  We're dealing with people who, in many cases, are a little unhinged.  The doorways to their psychoses are hanging wide open and anything could trigger those doors to slam shut unexpectedly.  One person finds a chick and another wants it.  One finds a bunny and another thinks the bunny is whispering to them.  As Jeremy has announced a competition where the one who finds the most wins a prize (another egg), fisticuffs could break out among even the most placid of patients.

 

On the other hand, it may well be a roaring success.  The competition could be viewed as everyone is a winner purely because we're able to do this in the first time.  The eggs might be consumed without incident - no stealing, dropping, hoarding or coveting.  It potentially could put a smile on our faces which will remain for quite some time, before Jersey, Connors or one of the others decides to do a little metaphorical dusting and wipes it off.

 

Who knows?  Ask me another.

 

Either way, I like Minstrels.  I'm happy.  I hope you enjoy yours too.

On Being Unwritten...

Do you ever wake up disorientated?  Wondering where you are?  Who you are?  Even, why you are?  Do you wake up and something just doesn't feel right, as if someone rewrote your life and forgot to tell you to turn the page?

 

I had that feeling this morning.

 

I dreamt I was a fictional character, plucked from the odd ramblings of some strange man's musings.  I dreamt I wasn't real and I only existed because he had breathed life into me through the tapping of the keys on his computer.  They were the defibrillator jolting me from nothing into being.  They were the bolt of lightning in the crazed laboratory of an aberrant mind.

 

I mean, he's have to be aberrant, wouldn't he?  Whoever thought me up?  I'm a lunatic, or so I tell people.  I'm responsible for deaths.  I'm responsible for so much despair.

 

Who'd want to create a character like that?

 

But, that was my dream.  I wasn't real.  I was made up.  I was words on a page.

 

Have you ever felt like that?

 

It's a weird feeling, and it's echoed through me as the day has passed.  Every so often, I'll look at my friends, Bender, Mucous and the others, and wonder if they're the same.  I wonder if they ever feel like this or if they are like this.

 

Could I reach out from this imaginary world and rewrite myself?  Could I backspace through all that I've done and erase it?  I could bring back Joy.  I could bring back everyone.  I'd edit my life to make it less painful.  More ordinary.  More mundane.

 

That'd be fine.  I don't want or need to be special.  I've had enough of special.  I want to wake in the morning and go to work.  I want to walk my dog and kiss my wife and play with my children.  I want to live on a river where swans float and geese occasionally get awkward and wander on to the road, just because they're feeling a little daredevil that day.

 

I don't want to feel the pain.  i don't want to hear the screams.  I don't want to cause the deaths.

 

But, it's not like that, is it.  It never is.  I suppose I wish to be fictional, because then, though it all seems so real, it wouldn't be.  Then, whatever I think has happened, it hasn't.  None of it has.  If I was a made up character in the mind of a writer, that'd be fine, because, perhaps, he might take pity.

 

Not on me, I don't deserve anyone's pity.  No.  Maybe he'd pity those that have died.  Maybe he'd feel sorry for those I've killed.  Saying that, if I've killed them, so has he.

 

Maybe I'll wake up in the shower and it will all have been a dream, thanks to him taking a cue from an 80s soap.

 

Still.  I feel... less substantial.

 

Hey, if you're out there, at least get rid of my grey, won't you?