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July 20, 2002 viscous misery My psychic dyspepsia deteriorated into neuro-nausea and, on Sunday, I watched in horror as my soul went hurtling across the bedroom in a spasm of existential projectile vomiting.  A week later, I am vacuous and sore.  I see this as improvement. These conditions make writing difficult, especially when they are sandwiched between the white bread of real life.  Work has been hectic.  I've felt like a cartoon octopus, the inspiration for modern "multi-tasking."  In an office setting, one tentacle is used to answer the phone, two tentacles are used to type, one is used for shorthand, one is used to file the nails on another tentacle, and still another grabs a quick snack or cup of coffee.  At night, the cartoon octopus cleans his entire undersea cavern-house by simultaneously washing dishes (two tentacles), sweeping (one tentacle for the broom and another for the dustpan), vacuuming, doing the windows, and scrubbing the tub and toilet.  To unwind, he quickly grows a Vandyke, dons a beret and dark glasses, and plays every instrument of a jazz combo...  By himself.  But I was recovering until yesterday when a couple of unsettling events occurred. First, I spent three hours at the Office of Motor Vehicles helping my son obtain his driver's license.  A lot of people say the OMV resembles a zoo, but I disagree.  The OMV resembles an intergalactic zoo, the stuff of sci-fi movies where the animals are strange, but the visitors are grotesque.  Second, some manner of mass hysteria seized those with whom I have shared my Self.  Strangers counseled, acquaintances appraised, confidants dissected.  I blame it on the stickiness of my viscous misery.

©  2002 by the beastmaster