Swimming Upstream Of Consciousness

Posted: January 20, 2008 in The Roper Files


7:50 am…while the rest of the world is asleep. While the rest of the world rubs its hung-over head and moans “what the fuck; where’s my wallet, where’s my keys, where’s my (fill in the blank) While the rest of the world cuddles their last-nights-pickup and asks: “oh yeah by the way what’s your name?”

Spent the whole week at my menial job longing for the weekend like a lovers touch, like the lotto numbers actually matching mine for once. LIke seeing a really nasty bad guy get it good at the end of a movie. Like opening a Christmas present and Yes They Got The Hint.

Wanted this. Needed this.

Well it’s here. Sitting here enjoying the buzz of my umpteenth cup of Kona bean with lots of sugar, lots of half and half, lots of whipped cream on top just like a certain evil demonic foo-foo chain whose wretched name I shall not speak here serves and at a fraction of their price. If you were here I’d offer you a cup. But it’s mine! All mine; ha ha!

And it’s a good buzz too I might add. By the time I get to about cup #4 my brains pleasure sensors kick in to high gear; we’re uphill on this roller coaster now, baby.

Soaring above the scum I fly; looking down at the world spitting and throwing pennies from on high. Hurtling through the void, spinning throught the cosmos with a velocity previously undreamed of before. I’m Columbus, I’m Magellan, I’m JohnmotherfuckingGlenn. I’m Captain Kirk, I’m Doctor Who, I’m The Reluctant Astronaut.

Shouldn’t get behind the wheel when I’m feeling this good, so here I am at my coffee-stained keypad instead. Got the soothing sounds of the John Coltrane “Transcendence” cd on my 120-watt fuck-the-neighbors Pioneer as my soundtrack for this verbal safari. Off through the dark treacherous unchartered territory I try to pass off as my thought processes we go…please keep your arms inside the windows, thank you.

Back when I used to drink I remember kind of going into a mental state I referred to as “Coors Control” that always began with the mantra: “You can do this…”

Now that I’ve quit drinking I still kind of go through a slightly different version of this when I assume the drivers position in front of the keypad. Major buzz-kill to say the least. One minute I was having fun; now I’m expected to Do Something? Shit!

OK I can do this…the filament of the strobing flickering light bulb in my head begins to glow burning red; am I squeezing out an idea?

No wait it’s only the dryer; excuse me as I sort through the items that actually need to be hung on a hanger and the ones that go into the hey-at-least-they-got-washed pile.

All right; I’m back. OK WordPad I don’t like you and you sure the hell don’t like me, but we both got a job to do so lets get this over with…

The usual Mexican stand-off between me and the blank page resumes. I stare at the blank page and it stares back at me.

Get a thought; grab it with both hands in a death grip. My fingers begin a St.Vitus dance on the keypad. For a near-orgasmic precious few seconds, for the most fleeting speck of time I’m Thelonious Monk, I’m Keith Emerson, I’m Rick Wakeman. Never more thankful I took typing in high school (hey the only guy in class hint hint) otherwise this would take forever…and then:

The Crash

Out of coffee? How’d that happen? Made a whole pot; where’d it go? Oh yeah…

My fingers shake and quiver; the monkey on my back has an icepick in each hand and the son of a bitch is loving it too.

The death throes of my pleasure sensors trigger a choir-like howl as the withdrawl begins. “Help meee….”

Only one thing to do. Swill down that last cup and head for the cafe and be sure to get the table with the cute Mexican waitress who always bends over to write down my order and gives me a most bueno peek at her ample knockers. She knows how to make me over-tip for their mediocre food and their inferior-to-mine coffee.

(to be continued…this never stops; please trust me on that one)


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