Flushing The Mind Clean

Skull. Talk to the skull on the mantle Sherlock, Hamlet. Take the answers from the empty eye sockets, the sharp cheekbones. Take a closer look. Microscope, investigate. Fraud, fake see the lies the lies, lies, lies. The jawbone of an orangutang, eyeball of a human. None of it makes sense. Why is it there? What was life in those bones? What did you eat? Your teeth, they rot. With sugar and nicotine and word vomit. We are only between wars, the next will come soon enough. Against whom this time? Our victims, or ourselves? Or are these always the same thing? Mammals, mammals, mammals. We’re all tough and even if you’re tougher it’s okay because we evolve. We grow, we move, we climb, we hunt, we watch the sunset. We pray for the green light above the horizon like Davy Jones who hunts for his lost lover. She’s a God, Davy. She can hide wherever she wants. In plain sight she hides from you. Calypso he calls. And calls and calls and calls. She ain’t coming back, give this one up, save your treasure for yourself instead. Holy shit. Those jagged rigid marks, squiggle marks across the interior. We’ve solved the murder mystery, it’s done! What now? Wait around I guess. Hope for another puzzle to solve. Maybe the Tong child skull mystery is next to figure out. We could do it together. Maybe not, maybe this time it’s just me, my adventure. You can go home now, walk or drive I don’t care. No sorry, I can’t drive you. Here, take the number, it’s a taxi guy nearby. Tell him I sent you, he likes me. Sometimes I give him the extra cookies my grandma sends and I get free rides around town. Tell him I sent you, bring a cookie if you’ve got one.

TAKE A ONE MINUTE BREAK.

What’s the fruitiest fruit? The fruitiest of all, passionfruit of course. Seeds and color and taste. Even its name is amazing. Who wouldn’t choose that fruit? Apple, orange, plum you say. How fucking boring. Think outside the box for once. No, further from the box…even further than that. Now try again. Change you answer, change your mind, change your clothes, change your tone young lady. Mom says for the tenth time today. What if I don’t want to, what if this is the only outfit in the entire world that could possibly explain my life, my emotion, my feeling that I am experiencing right now? This is it, this ensemble is what I want to wear, no what I need to wear. So sorry Mom, but this is it. This is the best it’ll get for me. Will my credit be crushed? Do you still respect me? No. Okay, fine. We’ll both get over this tomorrow. Let sleep steal our frustration. That beat, that bass, I hear it all the time. It motivates me to pedal faster up that hill on my bike when I just want to walk the damn thing the whole way. Biz Markie! What are you doing here? I don’t mind, you’ve got soul man. I appreciate that. I wish I had soul, you know that fierce passion that scares some people? I love it. I want it, I need some more of it. Honestly, I’m something different. Token. A chandelier. A steering wheel. You only need one of me.


I like to call this flushing out my mind: two 10-minute sessions of a stream of consciousness exercise, write everything in my mind continuously with the intention to put every idea, every problem, every spark onto the page. It comes out strange and confusing, but there’s a tiny string between every thought, a few crumbs so I can find my way back. I highly recommend this to everyone. When you finish your mind feels refreshed and somehow invigorated. Try it out for yourself, no editing.

Note: I was listening to a Radiolab podcast called “The Skull” while I wrote this. Some ideas develop from what my ears are hearing, but most of it comes from the crazy offshoots that occur afterwards.

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3 thoughts on “Flushing The Mind Clean

      1. I don’t think I could write for 10, but instead I’ll do 2 minutes:
        Pills dropping into the glass again, makes me sag again. Makes me wanna go back to smoking the fags again. I ain’t never wrote like this before and I ain’t even sure why rhyming this so…
        I like to express myself creatively through words. I ain’t a performer, nor a singer, it took me years to figure the former, still working on the latter. I’m joking this reply is just chatter, kinda-like-a-blogga-natter! For reasons that elude me, my writing is dark. Sinister, twisted, vigour and verve with a spark and quite abstract, but it is always well researched. There ain’t nothing fucking worse than reading something that is just ignorant to the subject that’s versed…2 minutes up, I’m afraid.
        My gift to you. it’s probably a load of crap anyway

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