Category: The Brain… It Bleeds!

(Or is it feet?)

Zeus was feeling sad. The old thunder and lightning bit just didn’t strike fear and terror in the hearts of the hums the way it used to. Also, Hermes kept flitting around, asking about email and AOL and things like that. Apparently, their dial-up connection was just too slow. “Come on!” he’d said. “I can run around the world THREE times before I can download my email. We gotta get with the program, here!”

Zeus didn’t really see the point. Hermetic wisdom, ha! This guy was just as in the dark as all the rest. And Hera? Ho boy, where to even start. Zeus stared down at his sandals. One of the straps was fraying. Nope, they just didn’t make them like they used to. Hercules used to say that he’d worn the same pair of sandals through all of his Trials. Zeus believed it. Those sandals were solid. The smell though, phew! Zeus suspected that the stench might’ve contributed to Hercules’ legendary crankiness. Also, that lion? STINKY! Hercules hadn’t really figured out the whole sportswear thing, that’s for sure.

There was a crash and Hermes said, “oops.” Zeus looked over to see him holding a shard of one of his favorite vases. Zeus sighed and went back to playing Tetris.

(Now, it can stand up on its own, after all.)

Here now, here now, here’s an origin story for you.

This person was born. And then so many things happened. And then everyone got tired of the story and went looking for a new origin story to listen to.

(As opposed to the backlash.)

Indeed, indeed, indeed. The Hungarian Prime Minister of Uruguay (long story) sped along on his moped. Nothing had been the same since the Tea Kettle Incident of ’27. Even now, the sight of tea kettles left him in a cold sweat. Thankfully, he thought without words, he had his moped, his delicious pink moped, the solace of his days and nights, the sole comfort of his stultifying days, his terrifying nights. Heavy lies the head that wears the pinstripe suit or something.

In some past or future time, he murmured without speaking, he might have been a baker or a shoemaker, some kind of a woodworker or a sculptor. It almost didn’t matter what.

He’d been elected seven times to his position, yet, no matter what he did, he couldn’t get unelected. In the last election but two, he’d tried to conceive of some way to run against himself so that he’d lose no matter what. But no matter how he sliced it, there he was, Prime Minister. He’d scoured all the land of Uruguay for anyone, everyone more qualified, less corrupt, more thoughtful than he, but they’d all politely declined.

In a fit of universal sanity, they’d all turned down the possibility for nigh on supreme and ultimate power. An exaggeration, sure, but one which he’d been sure would lure some power-hungry dog-catcher or neighborhood busybody. No dice.

The Prime Minister got the distinct impression, and this was the most infuriating thing of all, that they all pitied him. That those kind old women who pressed warm pastries and hot tea into his hands, who knitted him scarfs out of, I don’t know, some kind of llama wool or something, that they did so not out of a sense of patriotism or duty, but because he reminded him of that time their son or daughter called home, homesick and weeping. Even the moping, sullen teenagers, in their derelict shades and second-hand finery, didn’t ignore him, their laughter chasing after him as he sped by. (Really, now? “Sped”?)

It was Wednesday, miercoles, if you will, when the Prime Minister slowly came to a stop, stepped off his moped, laid facedown in the grass, and wept.

He would never not be Prime Minister, you see. Not ever ever ever.

(Yes, it’s a bird, silly.)

I see. I see. I see. I see. I do not hear. I do not hear the silent warbler.

Because it is silent. Silent like a ninja or a screen door not opening. Silent like a crescent moon or, hell, even a full moon. Silent like a statue of a dromedary, but not a real dromedary–they’re very noisy. Silent like an absence of something real. Silent like the absence of something unreal. I imagine snow falling is silent, but that’s not true. It makes a sound, even though I cannot hear it. Not so the silent warbler. I once saw an owl fly. Its wings made no noise that I could hear, even though its wingbeats were so loud to my eyes. I thought I was sitting in silence, but now I hear this hum, the hum of electricity in wires powering all the things around. Somewhere water drips. Once, I woke to the sound of music, but there was no music anywhere. It was all in my head. Was that sound? In this music, there were voices singing. It was like no song I had heard or remembered hearing before. Sometimes I hear my eyelids blink. It’s funny when people say that it’s so loud they can’t hear themselves think. No one ever says it’s so dark they can’t see themselves think. No one ever says it’s so bright they can’t see themselves think. No one ever says it’s so quiet I can’t hear myself think. Or do they? I wonder what the silent warbler does when it’s not warbling. Perhaps it warbles in its mind. And now I think you suspect I’ve written all of this just so I could write the word warble a bunch. You’d probably be right, but maybe you’d be wrong.

I do love a good warble, silent or otherwise.

Also, a gargle.

(No, not the cartoon one.)

It was pretty cold. Good thing Juliette Conqueso had brought a sweater!

“Hey, JC! What do you think about this spot for our photo?” said Bonchur Gallnut, slipping on some ice that maybe was or wasn’t there.

Juliette pursed her lips. “A little spartan. I’m thinking maybe we picked a poor spot for a scenic photo.”

Bonchur sighed. “Yeah?”

“I guess, deep down, I really wanted swans, you know? Maybe some shrubs.”

“It’s off to Venus, then! Good thing we brought our teleprompteraterishnisagator.”

Things got pretty quiet on Pluto after that for a pretty long time.

Then some crazy space rocket whizzed by. Pretty fast.

(I’m not really.)

Give it time, give it time. Rome wasn’t built in a day. No one sneezes on Thursday. A collection of pods will not stand. Down home we like to butter our toast on the side. Weasels are for weasels. Fill it up, don’t tuck it under. Integrate the synergies, but do it baldly. Judge not the koi. Retire to a louder place. Once is heresy, twice is just plain fun. The trolls enjoy pickle relish, not the orange kind. Boredom is the gateway to more boredom. You only think you’re watching the street lamp, but really it’s watching you, because government. The lonely butterfly gets all the nectar. Quit stomping on radishes. Turn the page when you’re done reading it. The mind is a shelf grown fat with paychecks, bills, unopened junk mail, all unfiled. Autocorrect this, bithc! One pencil is a handful, two pencils are tow handfuls, but three pencils are just silly. Crying is the sound of the toaster, laughing is the sound of one hand clapping. Kill your measles. Grow fat and sassy. When you’re feeling blue, chop some onions and then jump onto a water slide or a slip’n’slide, it doesn’t matter which. When a wormhole presents itself, you may enter, but don’t forget a sandwich and a spacesuit. Speaking of sandwiches. Fnord. There are many ways to say thank you, but only one way to say “please”. When the USB won’t fit, just turn it right around, no the other way. A poor man is the poor man’s poor man, but a hungry man is forever. Beware the jungle at NE 60th and Grand. When you meet Buddha in the road, cross to the other side, unless you’re at NE 60th and Grand, then you can kill him in an epic fight to the death, but make sure you have an audience or cameras or something, because otherwise, why bother. Two finger typing is for stars, thumbs are for primates, and hurdy-gurdys are for meistersingers. Unicorns make good burgers, but you don’t want to hire one. Fly traps are the battery acid of the soul. All that glitters is not rutabagas. An inkling for your idiom. Pursed lips are the devil’s plaything, also music boxes, also train sets, also jacks, also stubbed toes. When you can’t remember your name, then you’ve finally arrived. Never pack your suitcase with amoebas. If you’re gonna tie one shoelace, you might as well tie the other. Don’t talk to strange urns, strained jars, or stray njurs. Believe what you want today, because it won’t matter tomorrow, especially if tomorrow is a metaphorical tomorrow that never comes. Smile, it won’t get stuck that way.

(I am lying.)

There’s a downside to always writing so late at night. The downside is that I have to keep jumping up to keep the moon sharks from slicing through the windows.

Damn moon sharks!

(You thought I was going to say pie, didn’t you!)

When sleep came at last, there wasn’t much to say about it. And so no one did.

Some dreamed of colors, turquoise, gold, and pink, splashing across the lightlids.

Others dreamed of squirrels walking on hindlegs and menacing the postal carriers.

At least three had dreams of falling down stairs, while two others had dreams of falling up them.

On Wednesday, at least one child had a dream about a Hmmm, and someone’s grandmother dreamt of an Umm.

Many dreamed of a loud silence.

Some tortured few dreamed of speaking in front of N people. It didn’t matter what N was. The dream was still terrifying. The most terrifying one of all was the one where N equaled 0.

The majority dreamed of many things, but remembered nothing of it upon waking.

At least one person woke laughing. Three woke sobbing. Some number larger than seventeen awoke to find drool on their pillow. This had nothing to do with dreams.

Inside of a dream, less than eleven woke up, but didn’t realize they were still dreaming.

Three died in a dream, but were fine upon waking. One of these had never had such a refreshing night’s sleep.

I can’t remember how many dreamed of being born.

Some countless number dreamed of sex, in some fashion.

There was one who had a dream and recalled it perfectly for three minutes, until the cat jumped on the bed, and all was forgotten.

There were at least eight who vigorously practiced writing down their dreams. Seven of these never read them later. The last one was confused.

A fraction simply never dreamed at all. They did not suffer for it.

One dreamed of Borges’ Library of Babel and never woke again.

Just like that, everyone woke up.

 

(Relatively speaking, it’s not hot at all. I’m looking at you, MERCURY.)

Gravabrabbit Luigi Munglebroop, he of the shiny eyelashes and lustrous toenails, was at a loss for words. This was unusual, because he was a professional talker. Just talking, talking, talking all the livelong day. Some people thought it odd you could get paid for such a thing, but these were the times he lived in. Some people also thought it odd that you could make money off of pickling foods, but there you go.

Yes, this was quite the time to be a Talk-Talker. People seemed to eat it up. They’d even listen to him Talk-Talking at double-time speed, just so they could catch up on all of his past Talk-Talks. Any little thought just came into his head, he said it, and then it was recorded and beamed out to his goozabillions of listeners.

At least people could do other things while listening to his Talk-Talks. Gravabrabbit Luigi Munglebroop (“Grav” or “Gloom” to his fans) couldn’t understand the appeal of watching the Watch-Watches created by the Watch-Watchers. No Talk-Talk listener of his had stepped in front of a hyperloop trolley or a rabid neo-genegineered sabre tooth thingy.

“Grav” had woken up that morning with a groan and flurried right into it, as he put on his socks, brushed his teeth, and gave his feet a bath. Just Talk-Talking away. Even when he’d stubbed his toe on the ugly ironwork chimera–or was it a gorgon? He never could remember–he’d just kept Talk-Talking away, comforted, even in the midst of his pain, that, being classified as an adult Talk-Talky, he’d not be reprimanded for the expletives he’d let fly. He pitied Gorgomon Jeev “Childmans” Goot his child-oriented Talk-Talky, forced, as he was, to babble nonsensically about the latest Gobberfrop fad or Tumblederry cereal of the week.

All that was fine. “Gloom” had Talk-Talked away most of the morning with happy inconsequentialities. (Things had gotten a little dicey from 09:11:42 to 09:27:12 when his ex had called to complain about the turkeys in the dumbwaiter. But that was neither here nor there. His fans lived for that kind of thing. Even so, he’d almost lost his cool. Turkeys! Dumbwaiters! Plaid spats! It never ended.) That is, until that happened.

Yes, Gravabrabbit Luigi Munglebroop was at a loss for words. And he didn’t even know why.

(No, I’m talking about the OTHER one.)

Violet: It all started with a sandwich, I’m sure of it!

Indigo: We all have to eat lunch, it’s true.

Blue: Sometimes I skip lunch, but that doesn’t make me a bad person.

Green: Sometimes I eat two lunches and then look for a pot of gold. It could happen!

Yellow: When I’m happy, I eat more. Isn’t that strange?

Orange: Today, I felt happy and sad, both. 

Red: Why, sometimes I’ve felt six different emotions before breakfast.