|
by William Michaelian |
||
|
Yesterday I lost my mind — again. It’s weird. I lose my mind the same way other people lose their glasses or their car keys. In other words, it isn’t really gone, I just can’t find it. Still, each time it happens, it’s upsetting, because I’m honestly afraid I won’t find it again. And where do I look for my mind when it’s lost? That’s a hard one to answer. If I knew that, it would mean I hadn’t lost my mind in the first place. Or would it? I look in the usual places, I guess: the refrigerator, under the couch, in the neighbor’s mailbox. I might even look in the newspaper, under lost and found. Found: one mind, never used. Found: one mind, in very poor condition. Found: one mind, do you mind? The point being, I just don’t know. The point being, I wouldn’t even know I’d lost my mind if I didn’t suddenly get it back. Did I mention that I’ve been drinking too much lately? Well, I have. Every day, I imbibe a quart of malt liquor, a quart of gin, a quart of whiskey, a quart of vodka, and a quart of schnapps. When evening rolls around, I really start drinking. In this condition, I make all sorts of interesting decisions. I live dangerously, as they say. But I never leave my chair, because I’m afraid if I do I’ll fall down and go boom. As you can see, my mind is with me at the moment. Isn’t that nice? Shall we have a meeting of the minds? Go ahead, ask your mother if your mind can come out and play with mine. What’s that? Your mother has also lost her mind? What a shame. Tell you what: why don’t our minds get together and go out and look for your mother’s mind? Do you think she’d mind? Oh. You’ve got to ask your father. But he isn’t home, he’s busy having an affair with someone who never had a mind in the first place. So what should we do? Everyone raise their hands: all in favor of putting our minds together toward a useful purpose, say aye. All those against, say nay. Good. Now let us count the votes. The envelope, please. Hey, no one voted. What’s wrong with you guys, anyway? I may have left out an important detail. Then again, maybe I haven’t. Also, it’s quite possible there are no important details, or that all details are important, or that details don’t exist at all, and life is governed by generalities. Please, be more specific. This is what I’m trying to say: they say life is in the details, but I say maybe it isn’t. I say, maybe life itself is a detail. Seems to me it’s a matter of perspective. Hence, the warning label imprinted on my forehead: don’t assume just because everyone else does, or you could get into big trouble. By the way, I was kidding about the drinking. I’ve never ever touched a drop. So when I speak about losing my mind, it’s not because I have a drinking problem. I have enough problems without having a drinking problem. But if I ever find myself short a problem or two, I’ll start drinking, you can count on that. I may have lost my mind, but I’m not stupid. By the way, I was kidding about the kidding. I really do have a drinking problem. But I’ve got it figured out: my drinking problem comes from drinking, not my other problems. See? Logic. And you didn’t think I had it in me. Of course, I was kidding about the kidding, too, but you probably guessed that already. Dear Ma: It looks like I’ll be here for a long, long time. Don’t forget to write, Ma, you can’t imagine how much your letters mean to me. And don’t worry. I’ll be all right — someday. Oh, and by the way: were you kidding about your drinking problem, Ma? I sincerely hope so, because I always pictured you as the milk-and-cookies type. Well, I’ve got to go now, Ma, it’s time for our little get-together out in the exercise yard. Say hello to Pa, Ma, and tell him what I saw, see? Your loving son, Earl. Dear Earl: Before I forget, Pa says hello. He also says he’s glad you’re locked up, because that’s where you belong. I made him biscuits again this morning. I swear, that man and his biscuits — someday they’ll both drive me to drink. Yes, Earl, I do have a drinking problem. I never had the courage to tell you before, but now that you’ve figured it out anyway, it’s true. There. I feel better. Oh, and before I forget, Pa says hello, and that he’s sure proud of the way you’ve stayed in one place for so long. Of course, I always told him you’d settle down eventually. Oh, and before I forget, Missy died. Your loving mother, Ma. Dear Ma: I cried when I read your letter. I can’t believe Missy is dead. She was a good dog, like the sister I never had. Oh, and before I forget, tell Pa to go to hell, because he belongs here every bit as much as I do. And I’m sure sorry to hear about your drinking problem, Ma. But don’t worry, everything will work out for the best. Oh, and by the way: where did you bury Missy? Your heartbroken son, Earl. Dear Earl: We buried him under the floor boards in your room. Gotta go, Ma. Dear Ma: Won’t Missy stink things up? Earl. Earl: What did you say? Ma. Ma: Can’t remember. Earl. Earl: Ma. M: E. And so it went until he found his mind in the alley behind some overflowing garbage cans. What in the world are you doing here? he said. I could ask the same of you, but I won’t. Okay. And the two merged, and were mellow. William Michaelian’s newest releases are two poetry collections, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, published in paperback by Cosmopsis Books in San Francisco. His short stories, poems, and drawings have appeared in many literary magazines and newspapers. His novel, A Listening Thing, is published here in its first complete online edition. For information on Michaelian’s other books and links to this site’s other sections, please go to the Main Page or visit Flippantly Answered Questions. |
||
|
|
||