Posted: April 7, 2012 in transliteration

In grade school, art class fell on Wednesday. Wednesday also went by the moniker of Chocolate Milk Day. I considered it the best day of the week for these two reasons.

During college, I ran into something that we used to do as children on Wednesdays. It was a communal sort of clusterfuck.
You may remember it well.
I also recall dealing with it under your command outside of this specific context of drawing a picture.
Start something, and then, at timed intervals, pass it along to the next designated person in a chain.
Continue until the massacre returns.
Sometimes, in case the point hadn’t been driven home forcefully enough, the same abortion would be passed around numerous times
until the stain on the page was unrecognizable
both as something self-initiated and as something identifiable as anything worth looking at, at all.

My brain does this to me.
I putter along slowly gaining confidence in interpreting what I experience.
Then something in my brain clicks off and switches over before humming back into coherence.
Occasionally, I witness the muddled down time in between thoughts when everything is familiar, but nothing makes sense.
Usually, however, the shift is relatively graceful.
Everything has just shifted without warning. Everything is in place but slightly askew when compared to its previous position.

Everything is fine. Different, but entirely fine. Not new. Not outwardly changed.
It’s entirely internal.

Adaptation follows with minor resistance.
There is rarely an epiphany, and it’s not as simple as changing my mind.
It is not a conscious effort.
It is not even a linear progression.

It’s as if someone just shouted “Switch!” and my own page has been handed back to me from some unknown journey time and time again.


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