Empty Noggin

My head went silent yesterday for the first time in cognitive memory. All the voices were gone.

The observer. The questioner. The rationalizer. Even the guy whose story I’ve been observing, questioning, and rationalizing since I was knee-high to a childhood bed.

He’s not me; he’s a fantasized, multi-gifted version of everyone I’ve ever admired, all those role models I wished I had so I could emulate them. Everything I did wrong he did right, better than right, and always with such obvious justification it didn’t bear mentioning—but it got verbally annotated anyway because he has an up-against-the-wall-asshole life, having to fight conditions and abuse so much worse than anything I’d ever know. And always has the best-come back, the cleverest retort. He gets through it all, bruised, yes, scarred, sure, but undefeatable, with a knock ‘em dead smile and too-good-to-be-true grace.

But yesterday he was gone, just like that. I had/have a cold which was at its most miserable point. You know the one: couldn’t stop coughing no matter how many Ricola® I forced myself to let dissolve, not chew; couldn’t stop my nose from running no matter how much Cold Calm I used or tissues I stuffed up my nostrils. Hot one minute, cold the next, rinse, repeat all the live-long day. Couldn’t put my finger on my thoughts even though I had, as usual, piles and files calling for my attention.

So I gave up trying to work early, settled into my recliner, and booted up a favorite film, The Quartet. Don’t feel bad if you don’t recognize the movie; few saw it, fewer applauded it. I’ve watched it over a dozen times.

But shortly after the inciting incident (yes, I actually do think in those terms), I noticed my tinnitus was quieter. Huh. So I paused the show to let a scene play out in my head and… nothing. My noggin was empty.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

That’s never happened before. I flipped through settings and situations only to find them all inert, non-ocupado, as if I were walking through abandoned movie or TV façades. I couldn’t see or hear him anywhere, nor the wonderful supporting cast that populates his dimension.

Amazingly, I didn’t panic. I acknowledged, yet didn’t feel the loss. Maybe the cold had shorted out my circuits but I acted as if nothing was wrong… because nothing felt wrong. Just very, very different. Very different. Life-changingly different… or not.

He continued being gone when I went to sleep last night and was still AWOL when I woke up this morning. For someone with a mind that never fucking shuts off, it was mesmerizing, if disconcerting. Had I finally grown up? Was it possible I’d somehow shed the need for my far-more-vibrant-alter-dimension existence? Would I live out my last quarter century with all hands, feet, and awareness tethered in this, the “real” world? Heavens to Murgatroyd!

I want to announce that I’ve made peace with my hero’s absence but nay, nay. I went searching for him as soon as I sat down to write this Turtle episode, and he answered my call like a phantom triggered by a post-hypnotic suggestion, glowing into being just where I expected, with his laughing smile, unflappable patience, and soothing manner.

He was glad to be back. I was glad to have him. And that, as Winston Groom had Forrest Gump repeat, is all I have to say about that.