Owner of a Foggy Mind & House Walking

This morning I'm looking out of the living room window of my home. There is a muddy pool of rain water on the grass. I may, however, be looking in through the window of my home at a pool of water on the green carpet in my living room. If only I could dig into my memory . . . Wait a minute . . . Yes! . . . My foggy mind is laid to rest when a thin little man drives towards my home in a banal little car.

The little man is lost and explains that he turned into my driveway to seek help. I tell the little man to leave my house immediately! I tell him I have no driveway! That I find his little manners despicable! The little man leaves my living room with great haste. In fact, through the living room ceiling, leaving his banal little car and two of his little legs in the process. I could tell his temperature was rising during our encounter. I will, of course, try to ascertain his name and address tomorrow. Tomorrow? Yes. No sense getting myself worked up over nothing.

I hate to watch individuals suffer unless they are relatives or friends. Fortunately, I'll no longer have to stand in a bus queue and make idle chatter with people who - like me - neither wish to feign warmth or speak about grey winter mornings, timetables, how their children smell like sweet vanilla, and how their dog once desired to starve itself to death due to a bad internet connection. I now have a car; a banal little green car. It does, of course, tend to make the living room appear smaller. 

Sometimes I hear the two little legs "house walking" - mainly at night - in a bid to lose calories. A crazy exercise routine which allows both legs, adorned with inexpensive pedometers, to multitask while watching the TV.

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Sometimes the lyrics of a song can send me into a deep depression. One afternoon I was having a warm bath, I heard Bill Withers singing, Lovely Day. I think it was the line, "Just one look at you and I know it's gonna be . . . a lovely day". I immediately adorned my chastity belt equipped with a GPS tracking system, locked all the doors and windows, loaded my handguns and rifle, ripped out the phone line and sat in the kitchen sink where I had a clear view of my record collection. In the invisible silence I contemplated my weakness for bathing in yogurt and for jumping on sandcastles while wearing one shoe.

Suddenly I realized I was torturing myself and enjoying it. I no longer felt trapped. The fog I was living under suddenly lifted and I found myself sitting - half-naked - on stage with the New York Philharmonic during a performance of Tchaikovsky's Second Symphony nicknamed “Little Russia”. Somehow it all seemed appropriate. A stunned tuba player blew a lady's left ear off before he fainted.

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Reflections: It is beguiling how language stimulates one's thoughts and emotions. A sequence of words, either spoken or written, can make your heart droop. The words begin to haunt you, follow you to your place of work and your return home. And finally to your bed where everything worth having ends.