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The short repose from cubeLand, all of three days to myself, the first extended weekend since February, is alien. It felt weird, Monday morning, my subconscious activating auto-awake mode at around 6:30, without an alarm, without any other driving force than fear of getting to work late.
Giddy with the prospect of so much time to myself, to do everything and nothing, expanding works in progress, reading as much as I want, blowing up Germans in the Netherlands during Operation Market Garden, I turn around to find no time left. It has flown, too quickly, through the floodgates of unbridled exuberance, pouring out onto the sun bleached sand, pissed out on the shirttails of the last Budweiser. I loved every second of it.

“Some people would kill for a body like this,” someone close to me said recently, referring to himself. I laughed till I doubled over at the waist. The conviction in his voice, the reality of living with someone who is, to the core, so in love with himself, so convinced that he is right, all the time, that everything he says is true, and that he can order people around like servants, is fascinating.
I have been for the past four years attempting to remove myself from feelings of pride, from the idea that my accomplishments are to be touted, attempting in stead to let them shine for themselves, regardless if anyone is watching or not. Fuck, I hope no one is watching, most of the time, so they don’t see the remnants of pride wash briefly through the stormfront of my emotions, the vast copula of my imagination.

File access is becoming more and more easy. I am training myself to remember nearly everything anyone says, creating a mental image of that person, an avatar of sorts I can call up to help me remember important things about that person, to make them feel more comfortable and to facilitate conversation. I can look at a car, burning past me on the freeway, and actually see wild apes clinging to it for dear life, ripping chunks of plastic off of it as the driver takes evasive action, to throw them off.
Like a hologram projector- game I saw once, with my brother, of a cowboy fighting space creatures, kind of like that scenes constantly play out in the curved dome of my imagination. The bottom of the curve starts at eyeball height, with the main backdrop starting its curve about four feet out, coming to its hazy conclusions at the edges of the peripheral. Scenes from days past, from movies, short clips of past girlfriends, convulsing in orgasm, visualizations of hundreds of scenes from scores of books, my interpretation of an author’s ability to describe a given situation.
If I need a two ton anvil to fall on someone’s head, it busts out a few ceiling tiles, an old florescent light, to accordion the offending party.
But does everyone have this projection booth? Does everyone compare a given situation to various life experiences, video games, comics, literature, science fiction, movies, snippets of conversation, the pattern of chewing gum vs fractured pavement, a baby’s tired wail, the smell of a much-used dumpster?
I doubt I am special, doubt these three I call mine own, my daimons, the howling beast, antagonistic trickster, calculating demi-philosopher, I will ever truly call my own, lest they overwhelm me, lest I utilize their strengths too often, and fall prey to their weaknesses.
Regardless, as I do not look to compete with others, so no other will be able to compete with me. Something for the kids. X