My condition is terminal meaning I think I will die with or from or because I am sick of it building up all its fury with every single thing I see *INSERT POINTLESS  ANALOGY OF FIRE AND/OR STEW HERE*

My condition has confused the slightest interpretation of everything emerging incandescently  just as I am about to get stared on another thing and reminding me of sixteen hundred million quadrillion other possible things lurking that may or may not be relevant to me and gradually edging important things up onto higher shelves (I call them shelves because I imagine my consciousness as a sort of dusty old country shop where everything and I mean everything; boots next to orange juice next to hair gel next to pen ink next to pornography and bongs and holiday photographs of times I honestly have no recollection of are stacked in individual compartmented shelves that you have to reach with a ladder that runs along the floor on a rail and is serviced by an equally dusty and compartmented (and by this I mean opinionated) old man who fumbles:

“… in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone;
For men were born to pray and save”

Yeats, W.B. September 1913

FUCK-WHAT-SHITE-FUCK-WHERENOW? There I was talking about my condition and now I’m quoting Yeats like the Leaving Cert and talking about shopkeepers and the like.

Let me rehash…hash…hash…those were the days: My condition is a mental condition and it is my mental condition – yes mental – that means if you touch me you will not catch it and if I sneeze on you or don’t wash my hands after I piss you won’t catch anything either so don’t worry about it and you could say that it doesn’t exist and many people would believe you and would use it as an excuse to beat on my head harder in case I didn’t feel it enough the first time but if you love me it might stop depending on your tolerance levels but then again I might not bother to regret missing wedding anniversaries and rent and dinner and your friend’s name and my mother’s birthday and let’s be honest about yours and your brothers and my brothers and our aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents that are still alive and our co-workers and the doctors and nurses and of course not forgetting the dog because all of which none will be prioritised as I’m busy thinking about something else.

I told the doctor I had my condition and he said to me to “fuck off, don’t you know there are people actually dying in the world and I have to save them, SAVE THEM” but it may have been the television I was watching while I waited to know if I could be saved even at some stage and I was told by the doctor that Ireland have a better chance of winning gold in the Winter Olympics but all I could feel singing in my head was a scene from the Jim Carey movie  Dumb and Dumber where Jim Carey’s character what’s his name … something like  Freddy or  Harryor Eddy Spaghetti but who gives a fuckity but anyways there he is all pudding bowl haircut and smiling ear-to-ear and all: “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?” – I was told not to forget to pay on the way out.

I decided to write things down as a therapeutic treatment in the anticipation of prioritising myself because this sounds sensible and I thought that would be a place to start yet alas you now are reading the conclusion of my first and possibly last list until I forget I’ve tried writing lists before and in attempt to present proof of the pudding here is my first list:

Immigration office
Upload work crap before I forget
Buy towels (not pink)
Eclecticism, Eclecticisa, Eclectictisia: My condition is terminal meaning I think I will die with or from or because I am sick of it (you know what happens from here)

My grandfather got diagnosed with dementia two weeks ago and has since had a number of small strokes and my other grandfather has been medically categorised as daft as a brush but he’s not sure he’ll remember this tomorrow let alone next week or after his cup of tea in an hour or so but at least he knows something might be going to happen and it’s just as well he hasn’t bothered to prioritise anything and with all that in mind or out as the case may be as it may just slip out within the near future which is fairly shite similar to my condition and Chile’s infrastructure after that earthquake and air traffic control in Europe after the volcano Ealkfjajqfnaosnfoahrqhgnagnahgtiqhtnavgkanvjnaihtghqtnajgnzjvhihgjhagkjhqig in Iceland started coughing like a sixty-a-day cement factory worker and also similar to Greece’s economy and the feeling of the yellow dust in your eyes and the sound of any alarm clock on any morning and like remembering to do something to late and like when you stand in a puddle of pissy shit water with a hole in your shoe and no clean socks in your room or even worse when you don’t shake your lad properly after you piss and the job isn’t really well done and several drops run down your leg and darken your pants enough for anyone to know that you basically pissed your pants. Or when you lose something and you find it in your hand. Shite.

I could go on. I could. But. I just remembered. I have something else to do. Important something.

© April 2010

One thought on “Eclecticisia

  1. Pingback: 2010: A Year in Review « If I had a minute to spare…

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