I used to dream about being here. Watching all these faces looking
down at me, their eyes filled with an uncertain terror that is as
perplexing to me as the frantic actions of the paramedics that are
currently attempting to cork my chest. I wasn't supposed to make it this
far anyway, so why the long the face? There were never paramedics in the
dream though. Just those faces up there. You'd think, tangled up in the
myriad of details, my subconscious would have remembered to add
paramedics. Even if for just some realistic bent. Damn, look at 'em go.
I do believe they actually think they've got a fighting chance of
plugging me up. Relax guys. I don't make it to the hospital in the
dream. It ends right here on the floor.
All I remember is the flashes. Two of them, right on top of one
another, no reports. And then I doubled back like I'd been hit in the
chest with a hammer. Like I was lying on the floor and someone was
trying to hit me so hard that my eyes would shoot straight up and ring
some carnival bell. All out of stuffed animals, you're girlfriend's
going to have to settle with a piece of my rib cage and a whole lot of
black cherry surprise. Everything silent and surreal, the actions of
those around me have played out in an almost comical slow motion while I
do my best not to frantically giggle at them like some gin induced high
school girl. I don't know why I find it so funny, but I do. Lying here,
I've been futilely telling myself that I've just been winded and will be
alright in a minute. I'll get up and everything will be okay. That, in
itself, is humorous enough. Lying in an expanding pool of blood, I find
it rather ironic that I got it in the lungs. After battling sarcoidosis
and pumping my body full of antibiotics in an effort to keep me well
enough to perform, it's my lungs that have truly been assassinated. And
because of that I feel cheated in a way. You see, in the dream I always
got it in the head and there wasn't any of this inner monologue bullshit
to wade through. So if I've got to wade through it, then you're going to
have to put up with my bullshit a little while longer. Tomorrow's
another day kids. One in which I'll not be around to remind you that
it's nothing more than our irreversible perpetuation of eating shit and
being programmed to ask for salt.
I remember a time not so long ago when my dreaming subconscious used
to dwell on images of some quiet paradise lost to the wandering majority
and the perfect features of a girl's face that I'd never met. I used to
wonder what her hair smelled like. For some reason that was the one
thing about it that always bothered me. I never knew. I'm not quite sure
whether all of this means that I'll never know or that I'm about to find
out. Maybe that's heaven, I dunno. One thing I do know is that it would
be nice if these paramedic guys would stop bringing me around. I like it
in here when it's all quiet and full of wind sounds. For some strange
reason I can't stop thinking about Charlie And The Chocolate
Factory. I have no idea why. Who would have ever guessed that, in my
final moments, I'd be consumed by thoughts of milk chocolate rivers and
doors made of marzipan. Now I ask you: is that, or is that not, just
typical of me? This is where I'm supposed to be questing for forgiveness
and letting the better graces of my nature consume me with warm fear and
resigned conclusion. Instead, I've got images of grape flavored bubble
gum trees planted in my head. It would seem that my implant has gone all
screwy again. The last time this happened I was covered in chocolate
sauce and couldn't stop thinking about redemption. I had been a very bad
boy then as well.
Even in death perhaps the kid's still got it. Maybe you'll buy our
boxed set and remember me from time to time. On your stereo. In those
bad walkman head phones. I'll be in there, wandering around, bumping
into walls, tickled up on the inside. It's me, He-Man - is that you
Battle Cat? I'll be watching you dance around your room using a brush
for a microphone, a tennis racket for a guitar. And like myself in youth
and life, I'll recognize some of me in you and we'll be together again.
Even if for just a little while. Perhaps when you need it most. But
let's get one thing straight. Not in the shower. If you're going to sing
in the shower then I'll press my ear to the door and leave it at that.
Cause that's not the kind of thing dead guys need do. We'll leave that
to the cast of Porky's one through three and possibly a handful of
inventive ninth graders that have discovered the universal splendors of
the silent power drill.
Up goes the gurney. It would seem that they still think there's a
chance they'll get me there in time. So much for subconscious accuracy.
This is one of those rare moments when you wish you had a couple of
grand down on yourself. It's a lock. And, as any gambling addict will
tell you, it's not about the money but rather the thrill of knowing that
you've got inside information. I'm quite certain that I will not make it
to the hospital. Therefore, it doesn't really matter if I die and don't
collect. I'll have won and that's the whole point. You see, 99% of the
world thinks that gambling is all about the cash. Whereas the remaining
1% of us just want to avoid having to undertake the grueling task of
convincing ourselves that we won't be losers forever. Like some antidote
for the poison of defeatism, we're trying only to become that which we
were destined not to be. Laughed with and not at.
During the nine months that you are held captive within your mother's
womb you breathe symbiotic fluid. Although blood is a substance that
carries vital oxygen through the body, and is therefore usually
considered an ally, my last few breaths have forced me to the conclusion
that blood shares no resemblance to symbiotic fluid whatsoever. It is,
in fact, somewhat harmful when it attempts to skip several steps and
decides to wander around directly in your lungs in hopes of cutting out
the middle man and getting first dibs on the O2. This is not good. Your
lungs, which are quite stern and not that receptive to fluidic change,
decide to stop transferring oxygen to the blood which is not rebellious,
causing you to choke and ultimately suffocate. My inner workings are all
about ego it would seem. Something just occurred to me. If you blew hard
enough into my mouth I might actually be useful as a wind instrument. I
can't imagine being played like a flute. Actually, maybe I can. A
naughty business, that.
Is this where I stop pretending to be the me you always hoped I was?
Somewhere, imprisoned within the impregnable fortress of your
inflexibility, I remain perfectly fabricated. In a place without
windows, without doors, without the knowing of what transpires on the
other side of things. I'm going to die, you know, and little remains for
me to become that I haven't already deemed worthy of becoming. The
trials of myself, the pitfalls of being Marty, that beautiful confusion
that always was my photogenic side. I am a competent liar, you see. And
to myself perhaps better than with you. Maybe it's time I faced some
facts. Maybe it's time to realize that all this talking isn't doing
anything to repel the panic that keeps gnawing at my insides like
dynamite with a full dance card. I think that you should go now. This
doesn't concern you anymore. I shouldn't have invited you in the first
place.
This is the last of it. There will be no more.
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