Some Assembly Required

Going to bed dismantled has its risks. I’m no longer the man I was in 1983. And the man I was in 1983 never saw it coming. Though he should have.

Once the teeth are in the cup and the hearing aid comes out I resemble a version of myself best left in the basement; wrapped in a dusty shawl and seated in a squeaky rocker reminiscing about the time I almost got out of my rocker and did the things I was thinking and rocking about.

Climbing into bed I whisper Hi, sugar, remember me? in my wife's ear, after which I run out of breath and reach for the inhaler — night over. Though she does offer a conciliatory Nice try, Sparky before lights out.

Whispering is more strenuous than one might think, but once asleep I’m my old 1983 self again. That’s when I realize that 1983 me wasn’t much different from the 2022 me.

I wrote, took pictures, played crappy guitar, and thought about all those other things I should’ve been doing, but without the hassle of the actual doing. My head has always been a three ring circus, filled with a good mix of hearty laughs and plenty of pungent elephant dung.

Living in one’s head does have its advantages. The house in which I dwelt was like a messy starter home. You’re delighted to be there, and as simple as it appears, it did have potential. You were young and had plenty of time to turn that home into a grand showplace.

This is where I’m putting the library, I’d say. And over there, a little guest house for the librarian. I have a lot of books and cataloging is not my bag. (Not my bag was a phrase from a couple of decades previous, but I continued using it until I was punched in the face by a teamster who didn’t like my yucky face response when he asked if I’d ever consider a job in the construction trade. What? And risk damage to my slender and finely cuticled typing digits? Not my bag, man.)

All was going according to plan back than until I innocently wandered into my first tavern and sooner than you can say Another round for the boys! my roof started leaking and my basement flooded. I've been toweling off ever since.

When I’m finally handed my death rattle, after concluding that my shoes and pants are on fire, I will stand proudly at my backyard grill with spatula in one hand and my official Mortal Coil Death Rattle in the other. Then, after feeling the heat of what one has to assume is my shirt, I will start rattling like — well — like my hair was on fire.

Picture courtsy of Wiki Commons: 

https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?search=inside+your+head&title=...