Oh. No.

Advisory: The following is included for educational purposes. It is a bit scary for those of you unused to contact with the insane. And in case you think the following is just a free association exercise. No. It isn't. It is the use of language and drive to organize as story as bastion against the head spinning around and exploding.

I just had another Butterfly Question today. You know the butterfly who flaps its wings and sets into motion a tsunami half a world away. That little bastard. With me it always seems to start with someone asking me a question. Always a completely innocuous question. Sometimes even that most ubiquitous and innocuous question that we constantly ask each other often with a complete lack of sincerity “How are you?” To be precise the exact question, which in this case was asked in all sincerity by The Producer, whose good opinion I am just as sincerely committed to keeping, was “How are things otherwise?” ARRRGGGGH!

It turned out to be a Butterfly Question and now I am pounding the key board after two hours sleep and the inside of my skull is a themepark midway where they’ve cranked up all the rides to max speed to test the load tolerances. Good thing no one is allowed on the rides when they do that cause the mess from the decapitated heads and limbs would take days to clean up. Ow. It is actually the worst Butterfly Question that I’ve had in years in that I’m trying to ride the curl without benefit of drugs. Maybe that isn’t such a good idea. Perhaps a large glass of red wine will calm the neuro-transmitters down enough that the back of my head will stop expanding exponentially. Think there is a point after which geometric progression in brain activity leads to catatonia – and no, that isn’t a province of Spain. Hmmm, Spanish tapas, those crispy spicy potatoes. I have friends in Spain right now and Lil Dude has a friend in Spain right now too. I should get my friend and Lil’ dude’s friend to hook up and have Tapas in Barcelona. See good. That thought almost made sense. Like trying to catch clouds with fingers, snowflakes with hot pincers, raindrops with a sieve. And yet in this capacious and untenable sieve still I pour in the waters of my love and lack not to lose still. Back in the closet Bill. You are not. Coming out. To play tonight. My music book is in my old Two Gentlemen of Verona binder. It is green. And shiny. Shiny but not sparkly. Ow. Pretty sure there isn’t enough tryptophan in a glass of milk to help this but I need to try something. Did you know you can’t drink a gallon of milk in one hour and keep it down? Fortunately for me I don’t have a gallon on hand. Do have four bottles of red wine. Not lets try the glass of milk.

I’m flashing on that scene in Constantine where the alcoholic psychic priest drinks himself to death in the space of minutes trying to drown out the demon in his head. Nuts? You bet and I have the aluminum foil taped on my skylight to block out messages from aliens to prove it. See people this is where we get the stereotype of the artist as hermit. Trying to stop the noise. The back of my skull has now melted and the dura is exposed to the collective unconscious. Oh shit here we go. Gotta pay my cell phone bill. Collect mail from mail box tomorrow. Write grad student invite email AR changes to the Dean. Get up at seven turn on coffee maker. Beans ground ready. Organic free trade grown in the shade salt spring island but not on the island there really are salt springs there it gets into the grass and the sheep eat it and that is why the lamb from there tastes so good. But the springs smell bad that rotten egg sulphur thing. Like hell is supposed to. I know that I’ll be all right cause all I smell now is canned fruit cocktail. This new skin care is supposed to be chemical preservative free but it all smells like maraschino cherries – the shampoo is the worst so I smell like canned fruit cocktail. But it was expensive so I will use it up but I miss my Italian Love shampoo made from pistachios and arugula I know I must be getting that wrong it is the conditioner that is made from arugula. Milk is organic too which is kinda funny as I’m at a stage of life where I could probably use some extra hormones. Specially since my life is so completely devoid of men right now. Not many in my workplace and I’m not in my workplace I'm in my apartment because of the huge asthma flare up from the dust of the renovations at the office. Even fewer male hormones in the air. Lots of freaking fruit cocktail though. Say I have a sample of Hugo boss cologne somewhere, maybe that will help. No because that brings me full circle to thinking about The Producer and his question. Ow. And he wants photos of me. Several so they can chose which to use with my interview. Why? Not one want to look at me. Didn’t I become a writer because I’m a failed beauty. Pretty sure it was in the brochure that I get to use a twenty year old head shot on the book jacket man. Who cares what a writer looks like. I want to cut the index finger off my rubber gloves, draw a face on it, tape the cotton ball from my vitamin bottle to the top with a duct tape kerchief and take a picture of that. Or better yet borrow my nieces stuffed bunny rabbit and dig out my nephews old tonka dump truck, once again the duct tape to affix two mag lites for headlites and video a little 30 second short of the bunny caught in the headlights then run down by the tonka truck cause that is how I feel about my image captured in a photo right about now.

So many stories to write. Some many people to love and give attention to. Must remember to restock peppermint tea and some rescue remedy and something strongly lavender- that might be a factor as I always use organic lavendar hand soap and body wash and I ran out a couple weeks back. Sometimes strong herbal scents will snap me out of one of these weird fugues. The back of my skull is reforming. It is still soft as bread dough but it might be okay if I lie on my side. So tired. Yoga breathing. Water. Nasal strip. Sleep CD. Going to look for some delta waves now. Wish me luck. Made it with just a small glass of 1% organic milk. Shhhhh. Whisper please. Please no more thoughts for a little while. Need to clean my glasses. Shhhhh. File. Save. Apple. Shut down. Click.