Posted: September 13, 2010 in Uncategorized

Issues in Mental Health Nursing

Image via Wikipedia


the three were seated at different angles in the silver room. silver because of unfinished business, pretty much all around. unfinished might be relative to who would be looking in. for the three of them, it was all immaterial: they could sit and laugh any pretty much where they chose. This was for now the chosen spot. Little Yellow started it when she said something about shaving the head top for some special event, special olympic affair, if the hair was fair or not it wouldn’t matter, if the fight was fair or not, it wouldn’t  have mattered because in the end he had all left without one shoe on Each foot being the one now, 40 years later, 50 years later that had stepped on the harsh sidewalk with one sock on, one shoe off.. The oracle then holding his head with both hands, cradles it like an overgrown chicken egg, recites in a low monotone: should you remove the top slice of my head. there would be no blood because there is no blood in the realm of hypothesis, nothing but images and possibilities. as I was saying should you remove that slice, I would be attentive as to what part of my brain matter might follow with it, Maybe with it would go the memories of dinners past. Maybe all that was blue, in any variance of the color, would be no longer recognizable: suddenly blue would not exist which would make my son, the one without eyes. Or would I be the only one not to see his eyes? Or would I actually see his eyes but have no idea of what it was insofar as coloring content was concerned But really, no one would know it – not until much later in the process, if dinners and blues would be gone. It is true that something would leave with the topmost slice: maybe the part that concocts eerie splinters of destruction and loss so subtle it doesn’t matter, almost. except when it feels the entire top most of the head. and then he was forced to retrieve back to the shrinks office. He never knew their address and every single time he had an appointment he made sure he brought a map with him. The x marking the spot, but without a number. Ten trees past the women’s Clinic. What do they only see women, do only women work there, do they teach you how to be a woman, like the tennis clinic, or the soccer coined he had paid a fortune for his kids to attend and they never really gave a shit, scored a goal, carry water, learned how to serve, neither friend, not lord, nor yellow balls.. So thank God for women’s clinics and ten tress past the driveway because then he could get to the waiting room on time to pick the germ covered copy of discovery magazine and gain one more once of knowledge. So he is engrossed in the possible pleasure of eliminating that part of the brain by slow seepage… And no more pills. No more small capsules filled with god knows what shit, because then, neither blue, not dinners, not mysterious, strange, unexpected movies of early demise by accident, certain death by poisonous delicacies, guaranteed despair from disparate attacks from unknown gangsters under stairs.  No, none of that. The only thing to be concerned about was not how to in the aftermath of the great brain letting, he would close it all up. Then the oracle stops on his tracks: what if with all of it, with all the superfluous image production slice of brain and head top went a few intelligence coefficient points? No, he could not afford that. But then again… what if he were just slightly less intelligent and he could suddenly enjoy just going to a race car event or whatever they call it: he would buy tee shirts that showed faces of race car drivers and their numbers, plus a bunch of other sponsors and he would want to use those products because that would put him on the same bin would the race car drivers and all those other people who came to the races. He would sit in front of a TV set and watch the races when he couldn’t take the trip on any given weekend and he would have to avoid contact with other people because the races would be something big, like in really big in his life.  He would buy a recliner and put it right there, on the porch, between  the table and the spittoon because for sure he would start to chew tobacco, because hell, that’s where the fun was. He wondered how many points did he have to lose of his IQ he bought a new bowling ball and made friends with all those people who smoked in the bar of the bowling alley. He wondered if he would know that he had lost the points. He wondered if he would remember being smart. By now Little Yellow and Great Goader had started to smirk: how far would Oracle go with his small rant. Oracle saw the signs, he would lose them as they coalesced into the comforts of their perfect mental health. He then smiled at them and told a story. In a few moments they were laughing – no danger around the immediate corner, no real slicing of topmost parts of his head, only the smell of  Windex without ammonia and the hissing of the wet mop in the background linked him to the reality of the silver room. He crossed his hands behind his head, stretching his legs as far as he could and squeezed his buttocks together. The thick socks mesh rubbed against his calf and he smiled blissfully at Little Yellow and Big Goader. They smiled back, accomplices at last. 


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