Meet my mind

As a month long resident of the epitome of all college streets - the king of the anti-class, the don of disgusting, the ruler of all that is festering and fancy free, ann arbor's very own greenwood ave - my soul has slowly adapted to the constant clamour, whether it be from the neighbor's techno-mash up of every top 40 song, or the drunks two houses down setting kitchen accessories aflame, or be it three mysterious men who hotwired a crack-whore's car and moved it across the pavement only to protrude just far enough into the street to cause an inconvenience, or maybe even the crackwhore herself in an inexcusable and not to mention incoherent string of misplaced anger. In fact, my very inner being, the same one that chokes up in the scene where Robin Williams loses custody of his children in Mrs. Doubtfire, dances unabashedly, tossing left after right foot in a spiritual one-soul-show to the exterior noise which rattles my skeleton like the bass of a teenage garage band. It is not the miny marching band of drunken festivities that disturb my unsettled thoughts any more, but worse - self-loathing thoughts themselves keep my mind painfully cognizant of what i'm thinking, whether i like it or not.

Right above my left lobe is a miniature door, guarded by an ego clad in leather and wielding a firearm at ego-arms reach, making sure that only the nicest, the finest, the best dressed, the VIP of all noises and ideas slip in. Once inside, guests make a sharp left and continue on until morning. The hallway is dimly lit, dripping from poor plumbing and plastered with old flyers, remnants of bands past and protests never attended. In the middle of the canal, it seems that all noise, even your own breath or step, is stamped out quickly, silenced by the cold puddles and the idea-soaked walls. You look back unsure of which way youre going and which way is out. Better to continue onwards before another crowd of the elite comes stampeding your way. In several minutes you begin again to hear the hustle and bustle of thoughts, living their lives, sometimes, though rarely, interacting with one another. A light shines from under a crack in an almost unnoticeable door. You grab the handle and pull back hard, blinded temporarily by the new encounter with what may seem like daytime. Wallstreet. Other thoughts waving papers, covered head to toe in dry-cleaned business-casual suits, holding graded papers i've written, tax returns, overdue notices, application forms, coffee receipts and coffee receipts and coffee receipts, looking up towards the ticker of neurons shooting back and fourth. You wade your way through shoving and yelling towards the opposite side of the room, occasionally copping an "accidental" feel, on which you blame the incontrolable crowd. You've always had a thing for business women.

You head towards the sound of what any other thought assumes to be a sitar playing. Through a collection of dangling beads and directly into a cloud of white and blue smoke, the room tickles your nostrils and makes your clothes shimmy themselves directly off your body. One man strokes the instrument, not with his fingers, which by the way are too busy teasing a scantily dressed girl, but with the ends of his silvered beard. Everything and everyone is seated on colorful pillows, running their bejeweled hands and arms through the smoke strings, conjuring them to dance and move at their disposal. The incense make you increasingly nauseated, and you pivot to your right heading straight for the strobe light. Dance club; three levels; gogo's in cages; mafia men with chest hair showing; coke being snorted in the bathroom and off the excess end of parliment cigarettes; you know this scene. Rather, you WISH you knew this scene, that's why its hidden deep within the chambers of your imagination. You leave through a coffee shop, weave in and out of uninteresting segments of eavesdropped conversations, stopping only to salivate over steaming cups being passed across immeasurable barista counters. Then just down the hallway once more and out the door into the cold harsh reality of the world.

Some thoughts made permanent residence there - the stress-induced loiter on the trading floor, the mind altering and philosophic sit criss-crossed on silk pillows next to the idle half of your sex drive in the incense room, the other half mingles and mixes in the pounding music of the night club with any excitement and tacky notions that seem lost or should be lost, and the rest sip on americanos amongst the bookworms and transitory ideas. This is my mind, throbbing and more alive than any part of my exterior. And although crowded and although poorly decorated, it keeps me awake when the rest of the world sleeps. And after my resentment settles like dust on a book cover, i retreat into my mind and i almost feel comforted.