My Cousin Elmo says, “I don’t slur my words — I speak in cursive.”

My wife sleeps in the master bedroom, I sleep in the second guest room across the hallway. Before you ask, let me explain – I have night terrors that are often violent, and I have come close to physically injuring her while in this state.

We get up at about the same time each morning and join one another at the kitchen table for breakfast, her cereal, and juice, me a cup of coffee. This is also when we catch up, reminding each other of things needing to be done and where we share our nightly dreams or terrors if either of us can recall them.

Imagine my surprise when my wife starts telling me about a dream that grew into a nightmare, where we were trying to pass an 18-wheeler, and the truck sped up jus’ as we came even with the cab. She said we were on the wrong side of the road, forcing other vehicles into the ditch.

Then I tell her about mine. We were being chased by an 18-wheeler we had passed, and no matter how hard I pushed the car or how well I drove, we could not shake the truck as it tried and tried to run us off the road.

It is the only time we have ever had duel nightmares.

My Cousin Elmo says, “Land O’ Lakes removed the Native American Woman, but kept the land.”

Sorting out my mind is how I’ve spent this morning. It began when I woke and clawed from between the sheets.

It’s what I call a ‘Fuji Film moment;’ bright, vivid colors that are not there but real nonetheless. I say Fuji Film because before digital, there was only emulsion film, and the one that always stood out for its color was Fuji.

When printing a roll of Fuji Film, one always had to double-check the standards. It wouldn’t do using Kodak standards for Fuji, as the print would come out a blaze of off-key colors.

Anyway, that’s how I awoke. Somewhere in my brain, the same place as my manic-depression resides, I suspect, a chemical misfiring happened, and I had to let it fade away naturally.

When this happens, it also makes it hard to think clearly. I end up with all sorts of words racing through my head that I cannot keep up with them.

Some phrases I can hold onto, like, “We all have a touch of madness in us, that is to say, we’re each are mentally ill in our own way.”

“I don’t want to paint slowly. It feels more real when I move quickly. The faster, the better.”

“The ocean is eternity, and I’m simply going with the flow in the river of life. Some get to float along and never seem to find a snag or white water. Others, like me, have to dog-paddle, haul out, portage from rock bar to rock bar, and struggle to keep our head above the surface.”

“People tell me to share the fact that I have a case mental illness, but when I do, they call me ‘crazy.’”

It’s not all as dismal as it sounds.

It’s taken time, but I’ve learned to embrace my Fuji Film moments. For instance, I find that I do a lot of painting (something that I only really started doing in the early 2000s) when in this frame of mind.

So this is where I am right now, and though disorientating, it is another superpower, and I cannot be otherwise convinced.

My Cousin Elmo says, “The reason Mayberry was so peaceful is that no one was married, and the one guy that was stayed drunk and slept in jail.”

“Believe it or not, that’s a Lion’s Mane mushroom,” our guide said, right before it stood fully erect and growled.

My Cousin Elmo says, “While I can’t dance very well, I do the Moon-Walk better than Michael Jackson when I step in dog crap.”

She said to me, “I feel dead inside.”

“So do I,” I returned.

We held each other’s hand.

That night she had sex with my best friend.

The farmer looked at his son, knowing the boy had no future. He’d been starved for air at birth, leaving him slow-in-the-head.

It was the year 1892, modern times, with places one could leave an imbecile child. Family, town folk, preachers, and doctors all said to put the child away, but he couldn’t, such was his love for the boy.

“Don’t know what he’s yammering on about now,” he said to his wife.

“You know he has a strong imagination,” she said. “You recall how he spent months talking on and on about the bird that laid an egg on an island and it bloomed like the sunrise.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess it ain’t nothing then. Still, I wish I understood what it was about alabaster twins turning to dust. Sounds like a nightmare or something.”

“Go wash up,” she said, “Suppers nearly ready.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

The backdoor screen slapped shut as the boy came running in.

“What does certificate of vaccination identification mean, Momma?” he asked.

“It means you best go wash up,” she said. “It’s nearly time to eat.”

“Hope it’s fried chicken,” he said, racing to join his father at the washbasin, “I love fried chicken.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Does Major League Baseball require a photo ID to pick up game tickets or buy a beer? Asking for a friend.”