“What I’ve unleashed its too late to turn around,” said Milton.
“Feeling a bit disjointed, are we?” asked the psychiatrist.
“I’m tired of you referring to me as we. What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Milton.
“I don’t know what came over me. Are swear words the answer?” said Dr. Vinson, carefully noting exactly what was said and the tone in which it was said is the most important part.
Thoughts, replayed, memories flashing inside the mind of Milton as he daydreamed, all ancient memories now, a new beacon had arisen, that was all before, that was what lead up to now.
The mind of a crazy person, one must understand, is complicated by the fact that it is crazy, it taxes the emotions much more, is capable of sucking them up like a reverse bagpipe, but the only notes played are often sharp chords that mean ten things at once but nothing at all, stinging like the experience of riding a motorcycle through a blizzard.
“You don’t sound very happy,” said Dr. Vinson.
Milton had wrapped up his Kleenex tightly into a ball and separated one tiny piece, held on as the two rough spheres absorbed his palm sweat.
“Most people are smiling and very happy to come here,” said Dr. Vinson.
“I’m not most people,” said Milton, “I thought I told you that. Don’t you listen to me? Have you heard anything I said?”
Spinning now, now comes the spinning cycle. Ah, the rush of warm water and the slushity-flushity frothing of the mound. Exquisite now, the white head is building, its rushing over, honk, honk, wake up! Wake up, the suds are coming over the edges now, now the floor is getting soaked, soon the suds have filled the room, are heading down the hall. There’s no alarm for that! Can you tell me why? No time, keep spinning.
“And you have these, how often?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“About once every six hours,” said Milton, “they come on slowly, creep in near the close, the shiver of the spine that everyone is writing about all the time but never really knowing, I have that on the dot, its connected to the daylight hours. In the winter, they occur more frequently.”
“How have friends reacted?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“Poorly,” said Milton.
Hanging out to dry, on the vine, pinched hard to the line, kept, waiting as a scarecrow or a magpie, one or the other, for nothing to come, for nothing to know, for nothing to see, even what is seen is just a reflected copy of an original long lost and forever burned away, a shadow of a towel flapping!
“Tell me about your romantic interests,” said Dr. Vinson behind glasses.
“I imagine them,” said Milton, “often.”
“How do you imagine them?” said Dr. Vinson eagerly.
“I’m tempted to say I imagine them feeling very good,” said Milton, “but…”
“But what?” said Dr. Vinson, leaning inward.
“Something is missing from them,” said Milton, adding, “so I say nothing at all whatsoever of them and forget they existed.”
The lingering on in the drawer, captivated by the drawstring or the clutch that opens from the outside. Always confined, stuffed at the bottom, or else, hanging in the dank and dark rummage hole, the filing hole of every ten-finger man victimized before conception to a life of endless digging through closets with hopes for the holy grail. Its simply not there!
“This new idea that you speak of, what is it?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“It is The New Idea,” said Milton.
“And what is this ‘new’ idea?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“The New Idea has no expression,” said Milton, “it cannot be named, for a handle would slip off of it in a hurry, dropping the idea on the floor and busting it to a million pieces. Have you any idea, ma’am? This idea is more than all the other ideas ever combined! It involves some complexity, I’m afraid, you are simply not adept at comprehending, as yet, but we’ll see, soon I think you may come to vaguely understand for brief moments, which, if encouraged, may cause a blink of the eye cognition that nearly mimics the idea exactly, point blank! You will be flabbergasted.”
“Please, I’m trying to write down every word you are saying,” said Dr. Vinson.
A hand emerges, plucks out our victim, who is more amused than frightened. Each one is carefully applied, pulled up, wrenched around, suck in the gut, a facsimile emerges where before was an exact perfect living copy, as real as real gets as far as it goes. Shame is applied gingerly.
“So, I took the umbrella, stuck it up…” Milton stammered, his voice cracking some, “my, put it in my…”
“You’re rectum,” said Dr. Vinson as if she were helping a 1st grader read a very adult story.
“I see a pattern with that area,” said Milton.
“What do you think about when you are sticking things, for lack of better terms, up your bum?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“Jello,” said Milton.
A man is eating a green gelatin, his eyes are glistening, and his face well composed, for soon the character chooser is going to come, and spell over our hero, demoralizing him, destroying his ego, his id, his super ego, his super-duper ego, his sub-primordial id, his ancient godlike id, his tap-you-on-the-shoulder-and-say-hey-come-on id, his inner child, his outer child, his or her depiction as it was fashioned by a hounding news media, what a caricature, its own caricature, its own mystery walking in oblivion.
Too late to turn back, to early to move. Stuck like that, Milton called Dr. Vinson.
"I think I'm finished with my therapy," Milton said.
"Yeah, I think so too," Dr. Vinson agreed, "so do you still want to come and visit with me once a week? I would have to continue charging you, though."
"Perfect, works for me. Anyway, I'm eating right now... so..." Milton announced, hanging up.
"Hello? Milton?" Dr. Vinson, "are you there? Where did you go?"
“Feeling a bit disjointed, are we?” asked the psychiatrist.
“I’m tired of you referring to me as we. What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Milton.
“I don’t know what came over me. Are swear words the answer?” said Dr. Vinson, carefully noting exactly what was said and the tone in which it was said is the most important part.
Thoughts, replayed, memories flashing inside the mind of Milton as he daydreamed, all ancient memories now, a new beacon had arisen, that was all before, that was what lead up to now.
The mind of a crazy person, one must understand, is complicated by the fact that it is crazy, it taxes the emotions much more, is capable of sucking them up like a reverse bagpipe, but the only notes played are often sharp chords that mean ten things at once but nothing at all, stinging like the experience of riding a motorcycle through a blizzard.
“You don’t sound very happy,” said Dr. Vinson.
Milton had wrapped up his Kleenex tightly into a ball and separated one tiny piece, held on as the two rough spheres absorbed his palm sweat.
“Most people are smiling and very happy to come here,” said Dr. Vinson.
“I’m not most people,” said Milton, “I thought I told you that. Don’t you listen to me? Have you heard anything I said?”
Spinning now, now comes the spinning cycle. Ah, the rush of warm water and the slushity-flushity frothing of the mound. Exquisite now, the white head is building, its rushing over, honk, honk, wake up! Wake up, the suds are coming over the edges now, now the floor is getting soaked, soon the suds have filled the room, are heading down the hall. There’s no alarm for that! Can you tell me why? No time, keep spinning.
“And you have these, how often?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“About once every six hours,” said Milton, “they come on slowly, creep in near the close, the shiver of the spine that everyone is writing about all the time but never really knowing, I have that on the dot, its connected to the daylight hours. In the winter, they occur more frequently.”
“How have friends reacted?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“Poorly,” said Milton.
Hanging out to dry, on the vine, pinched hard to the line, kept, waiting as a scarecrow or a magpie, one or the other, for nothing to come, for nothing to know, for nothing to see, even what is seen is just a reflected copy of an original long lost and forever burned away, a shadow of a towel flapping!
“Tell me about your romantic interests,” said Dr. Vinson behind glasses.
“I imagine them,” said Milton, “often.”
“How do you imagine them?” said Dr. Vinson eagerly.
“I’m tempted to say I imagine them feeling very good,” said Milton, “but…”
“But what?” said Dr. Vinson, leaning inward.
“Something is missing from them,” said Milton, adding, “so I say nothing at all whatsoever of them and forget they existed.”
The lingering on in the drawer, captivated by the drawstring or the clutch that opens from the outside. Always confined, stuffed at the bottom, or else, hanging in the dank and dark rummage hole, the filing hole of every ten-finger man victimized before conception to a life of endless digging through closets with hopes for the holy grail. Its simply not there!
“This new idea that you speak of, what is it?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“It is The New Idea,” said Milton.
“And what is this ‘new’ idea?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“The New Idea has no expression,” said Milton, “it cannot be named, for a handle would slip off of it in a hurry, dropping the idea on the floor and busting it to a million pieces. Have you any idea, ma’am? This idea is more than all the other ideas ever combined! It involves some complexity, I’m afraid, you are simply not adept at comprehending, as yet, but we’ll see, soon I think you may come to vaguely understand for brief moments, which, if encouraged, may cause a blink of the eye cognition that nearly mimics the idea exactly, point blank! You will be flabbergasted.”
“Please, I’m trying to write down every word you are saying,” said Dr. Vinson.
A hand emerges, plucks out our victim, who is more amused than frightened. Each one is carefully applied, pulled up, wrenched around, suck in the gut, a facsimile emerges where before was an exact perfect living copy, as real as real gets as far as it goes. Shame is applied gingerly.
“So, I took the umbrella, stuck it up…” Milton stammered, his voice cracking some, “my, put it in my…”
“You’re rectum,” said Dr. Vinson as if she were helping a 1st grader read a very adult story.
“I see a pattern with that area,” said Milton.
“What do you think about when you are sticking things, for lack of better terms, up your bum?” asked Dr. Vinson.
“Jello,” said Milton.
A man is eating a green gelatin, his eyes are glistening, and his face well composed, for soon the character chooser is going to come, and spell over our hero, demoralizing him, destroying his ego, his id, his super ego, his super-duper ego, his sub-primordial id, his ancient godlike id, his tap-you-on-the-shoulder-and-say-hey-come-on id, his inner child, his outer child, his or her depiction as it was fashioned by a hounding news media, what a caricature, its own caricature, its own mystery walking in oblivion.
Too late to turn back, to early to move. Stuck like that, Milton called Dr. Vinson.
"I think I'm finished with my therapy," Milton said.
"Yeah, I think so too," Dr. Vinson agreed, "so do you still want to come and visit with me once a week? I would have to continue charging you, though."
"Perfect, works for me. Anyway, I'm eating right now... so..." Milton announced, hanging up.
"Hello? Milton?" Dr. Vinson, "are you there? Where did you go?"
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Now be honest.