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.”

You can’t help my isolation
You can’t help the fear that it brings
You can’t help yourself by seeing me
You can’t help my fucking want
You can’t help my wanting to fuck

You can’t help our social distancing
You can’t help the hurt that it brings
You can’t help your helpless can’t
You can’t help touching my human needs
You can’t help not wanting inside me

You can’t help my need to be inside you
You can’t help hurting me deeply
You can’t walk away on your knees
You can’t help my isolation
You can’t help the anger it breeds

You can’t help touching my body
You can’t help washing your hands
You can’t help beating me senseless
You can’t help my need to beat-off
You can’t help my wanting to fuck

You can’t your fucking turning away
You can’t help my breaking heart
You can’t help this romantic disease
You can’t help not wanting to fuck me
You can’t help having not seen the real me

You can’t help feed my isolation
You can’t help fuck my only fear
You can’t help but tease me
You can’t help my need to be teased
You can’t help your helpless can’t

You can’t help watch my death throes
You can’t help to wait and what to see
You can’t help explain your desire to me
You can’t help not acting on your dream
You can’t help believing in romantic death

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’m called an alcoholic because I drink alcohol, but no one ever says I’m fantastic when I drink Fanta.”