Monday, October 02, 2006

Sweat-soaked rags. Two weeks ago I thought the fever had broken, but only now has consciousness truly returned. The first thing I did was make myself a tremendous hoagie: ham, pastrami, corned beef, mortadella, capicola, prosciutto, pepperoni, turkey, roast beef, EH-4308-7-C-12 meat, lox, provolone, mozzarella, swiss, muenster, cheddar, american, P-7503-A cheese, mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, relish, strawberry jam, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, wasabi, worcestershire sauce, iron filings, and nutmeg on a sub roll, flash fried at 4500 degrees for 17 seconds. It tasted just the way I love it: like pencil lead.

Correspondent Richard P jocularly suggested in response to the delirious posting of September 20, 2006 that my fever was present at Iwo Jima — no doubt "riffing" in response to my own inane ramblings on the same topic. While I in no way wish to discourage commentary and participation from Richard P and others (because only by reading this log can the benighted peoples of your era understand what lies ahead), I must of course respond that the comment is ridiculous. The fever was nowhere but in my head. Do not encourage me when I am in that state. I must maintain lucidity. My own fate and yours depend on it.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Clarification: The fever didn't break with a face full of broken glass; I woke with one. The fever was faceless. It was silent but deadly. It had studied ninjitsu and naval architecture at the Sorbonne and color theory with Josef Albers at Black Mountain College. It mixed fantastic mojitos (secret ingredient: raspberry jam). It made its own shoes. It attended Sun Ra shows on acid. It did body shots out of the depression behind Paris Hilton's collarbone. It lived in Paris during the depression, tried to do a body shot off Gertrude Stein but got decked by Alice B. Toklas, fell down, and broke its collarbone. It toked up while watching "Alice" and drank beer from a stein which it bought on the deck of a cruise ship while watcing a documentary about Paris in color (bon!). It parried an attacking body with a colorful bone. It took a shot. It rolled a bone. It left no fingerprints, just a dead fish on my windshield, wrapped in delicious saliva-soluble rice paper. Clarification: It wasn't my windshield that was wrapped; it was the fish. The fish.

Monday, September 18, 2006

The fever, the fever, the fever, the fever, the fever. The fever is upon me again. The fever is upon me again. I stumble around the laboratory, upsetting experiments in progress, hemorrhaging data from my nose and mouth. Recapturing the information will be nearly impossible, even without the monkey. The Leader appeared on television tonight but when I looked at the screen I couldn't understand what he was saying. It was completely unintelligible: cascading echoes of chopped-up digital white noise. All I could see was twin images of his face in red and green, off-register like a sloppy print job. He looked like he was made of plasticine. I could sense his skin breathing. Then the monkey scampered through the laboratory clutching something -- maybe my equations? I climbed up onto the lab table and chased him, crushing beakers, spilling liquids and crystals. He jumped into the rafters. I lost my footing and collapsed onto the table. I woke when the fever broke with a face full of broken glass. I must kill the monkey.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

The Schwitzle which the commentator recalls is no more. Ever since the Leader instituted the Monoculture, personal expression is no longer allowed. It totally sucks. But at least we have Win-Win Competitive Swimming. Before I left the sport, I personally garnered no fewer than 6 dozen gold medals, a gross of silvers, and 12,000 bronzes. Every other male within my cohort has an identical record. My medals have been disappearing, which can only be the handiwork of the monkey. I should have strangled it in its cage. But to do so, my sister reminds me, would have created a karmic stain which would have been extremely costly to wash clean. I can only hope the filthy little brute will return soon with my equations.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Certain information is missing from my laboratory. I think that vile little monkey took it. I should have had it destroyed when I found it in the sluice gate, but my sister prevailed on me to keep it as a pet. To the monkey's banana-stained little brain the pages are nothing more than a pleasing texture or perhaps a way to make crinkly noises, but of course they are more, much more. The equations written across them in inks made from the bile of monitor lizards are vital to my work. Without them I'm just another championship swimmer suffering from recurrent hemorrhagic fever, placing call after call for one of the dozens of karmic telemarketing firms here in Schwitzle.