Automation

An automaton.  Day in and day out scraping wall paper, painting, plastering, scrubbing.  When I question the other side of me says “shut up” and keep focused on the Mission.  A mission that is non-existent for now but gives me purpose.  You let the current of fate sweep you along then you might as well sit in a rocker and wait for death. 

Motor Head is tolerant of the bedroom remodeling; sleeping on the bed with the Houston Grand Opera playing in the background.  The wall is on its second of three coats of paint; fumes warp my brain and chemical reactions access the databanks from 1972.  Vesti la giubba is twisted and bastardized to “No more Rice Krispies, we have run out of Rice Kispies.  My tears will not stop until I hear Snap, Crackle, Pop.”.  I relive it over and over in my head.  My curse – cataloging every ridiculous factoid of Americana. 
1968 - 1972: the impressionable years. 

Motor can’t take it - he has his standards. He begs to be let outside where I follow him. When approached he flops into epileptic-like convulsions. Sort of like those goats that go into a narcoleptic seizure when they hear a loud sound.