Image via Wikipedia
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ONLY
GRAY MATTER
MATTERS
Out of work, mind-jujitsu restrains my thoughts in a brain lock. I struggle to manage my time, my day. I get distracted for hours, lost in an intricate web of tangential thoughts.
Staying focused requires a cerebral taskmaster, a boarding school headmaster, a think tank to go. The frontal lobe comes to mind, which sits in the executive branch of the brain in the corner office with the Cappuccino machine. F. Lobe issues directives to a fleet of surefooted messengers ready to roll. They race through the synapses wearing sensible shoes with rubber soles. They never joke or take long lunches. They come in early and leave late, an army of overachieving electrical impulses hell bent on disciplining those no good slacker cells.
The messenger mantra, “Just following orders.” Their mission: to maximize my powers of concentration by firing up neurons – Zap, Whir, Zing – stings my brain. My Cerebral Cortex will never be the same. Tylenol is my aide, my equalizer, my mind masseuse.
I wash down two caplets to vanquish the pain in my head that throbs and clangs like an alarm bell. I close my eyes. They hurt, too, from smoke rolling through the sensory neuron lunchroom.
Minutes later the pain subsides. No more ringing bells. As the smoke clears, my intercom buzzes. It seems one of the slacker cells burnt popcorn in the microwave. She is put on temporary leave. At last I can see. I find a pen I had lost two days ago. Next to it sits a “to do” list, also M.I.A. Making progress. Add two things to the list. First, pick up a case of Tylenol. Second, buy more pens. One more thing. Scratch off microwave popcorn from the list. Per a memo from P. Lobe, “No more flammable perks for the sensory lunchroom folks.”
