Conversio

Sumthin’s gonna happen this weekend. I can feel it in my bones.

What exactly, not sure, don’t know. But there’s that crackling in the air, that blue-white arm-hair-raising electricity in the air, that tells the lizard brain in the center of our skulls that something’s afoot. The metaphysical two-by-four is poised and waiting to smack the back of my head like Yasiel Puig wailing on a strike zone fastball. *

Will it be something I read –

No. That avenue was closed in 1992, despite my continual fevered readings.

Will it be something I hear –

Maybe, but I think not. Everything’s too loud around me to hear anything above quieter than a freight train.

Will it be something I see –

Nah. My eyes are so crappy I can’t see eighteen inches past my nose without my glasses. And not too good with my glasses on anyway.

Will it be something I dream –

Unfortunately, no. The Great Other doesn’t communicate that way with me. I do dream, but they’re usually stupid mazelike encounters with people from my past paraphrasing awkward social interactions of years ago.

Will it be something I do –

Ehhh, my weekend’s planned out, pretty much. But you never know, do you?

All I know is I can feel it! Yahoo! I can feel it, like that bald-headed singer from that 90s band Live growls, I can feel it, yeah!

…

Follow up to follow, following the following two days.


* = I watched the Met-Dodgers series this past week.