Maggie's Farm

Nausea

Just one more day in the theater of the absurd…with every word Cambell speaks I imagine myself liberated from gravity creating a startling sense of physically floating up and away from my desk and into dark spaces lit only by the memories of stars. I shake my head and push away from the desk in front of me and I drag my consciousness back into this place—this reality: this house, a dog, nagging doubt, unpaid bills, the knot in my back that comes from sitting in front of my computer.

Words pulse throughout my mind, coalesce and break apart; Notions rise and fall in the tide of my thoughts and I am no closer to a sense of having understood the context of this moment that has trapped me from my beginnings. I am limited—dust—floating in the glimmering memories of stars.

My thoughts have never soiled the transcendence of reality and I fear I am waiting for Godot. To contemplate this awakens within me a restlessness I have known intimately; It’s a feeling I’ve known throughout my whole life—this god shaped vacuum—and it pushes from the very back of my being to the very front a gorge that lodges in my throat and stifles the hoary grunt of my existence.

Every word that is spoken now falls to the floor. I am serene. I imagine I am dust floating in the glimmering memories of stars.

There’s no more coffee in the house. I’ll have to go out in a bit and get some or I’ll get a headache.

Houston we have a problem.

Major Tom keeps claiming to have found the key and when pressed for an explanation he suggests we should "go ask Alice."

Sinsemilla, hydroponics and a bong and damn it, Campbell's trying to swim the English Channel again. The only way we'll get him back is with a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies, a hoagie and a bottle of Cream Soda.