I take medication. Pretty, palish pink capsules full of peace and harmony. Combined with the tan pills that keep the headaches away, I am the picture of dullness. A real boy filled with artificial joy. Not that these things are bad. Taking medications that defend my body and mind against the puking from blinding migraines and the behavior caused by torrid emotional states is beneficial. There are limits, however, to the miracles of pharmaceutical science. For instance, these same magic beans of sanity cause me to be remarkably slow. Remarkably slow is demonstratively slower than plain, old slow. I find myself staring at random objects and people in a dull-witted, ponderous way. I’m happy, though. Happy and slow. Slow and happy.
Each new morning is a race against slowness. I awake and find myself not really bounding out of bed and over the laundry pile anymore. I wander the house in search of something. Maybe it’s the brown no-mo-headache pill, maybe it’s coffee. I feel like I’m living in the David Byrne school of dissonant reality.
You may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?
At work, the whole dullness aspect of my personality is paying off. The more I stare at my computer blankly, the more it looks like I’m controlling it with my mind. Co-workers wonder how I got the IT department to give me one of Dell’s new hands-free, mind controlled p.c.’s. This arrangement works out until I topple over onto the keyboard or just get out of my chair and wander off. At church, the slowness is equally mystifying, because it looks like I’m deep in trance-like prayer. Every once in a while, I’ll come to my senses and yell “Abawootchie”* or a hearty “Be healed!” and everybody will just nod. That’s what mid-western church folks do. They behave politely and nod at everything they don’t understand. So, if you ever meet me, just nod. That way, I’ll realize that I’m acting slow, or dull, and try to speed up my body and mind.
*I saw this in a TV movie once. Apparently, Elvis was cheating on Priscilla Presley with this groupie and he’d shout “Abawootchie!” every once in a while, because that’s what they did in his church growing up. Now if your messing around on your wife and still talking about church, you must either be Elvis, or just taking a combination of pink and brown medications.*