BirdBrain

The dark arduous poundage slides down my forehead shuttering these eyelids, uncontrollably heavy. A laborious, no, a precariously unmanageable weight.

The light, too bright. The light which is too bright drives my head deep into my shoulders, resemblant a 20-pound hammer dropped atop my noggin, just sitting there.

These here eyelids can’t shield the bolts of smarting, the pins of pain, the hammer fist, so I keep my hoodie up, and tucked over.

The black Oakley’s, my darkest ones, my first line of defense. The big soft grey hoodie, my second. The inside of my palm, either one, my third protector- sometimes covering, mosttimes visoring.

My eyes are where the hurting seeps in, then sits there and stews. Some of my times, blacking out these here eyes keeps additional hurting at bay, but sometimes, there’s nothing to be done. And then those times further still, when I must and just sit, still, quiet and in the cold, hiding from the light.

My worst blow ever, ‘94 World Cup XC Mt. Snow, I was living with my girl T-Star and we constructed a cave down below in her abode. It’s where my bashed up brain needed to be: deep away, cold, no light. I was laid out, sofa mode, for months, my driving privileges pulled, horizontal, keeping one foot out planted on the floor, to keep the cave from spinning. My best-best-best-bestest buddy BigRacer David Duvall brought me videos, every single damn day. Not sure why I was meant to survive that Vermont rock garden, after my grandest head-dart to date but here I am, here I sit, here I lay, horizontal, again.

At times, I have pushed a touch too hard, and sometimes I just slip, and sometimes I just fall. Other times I may rush, with my two steps ahead of my first, and miss to fend off what’s aiming for me. Then lastly, there are times I just don’t see it, I’m not on point, then I pay the price.

Stuff, it happens. My caution to the wind position didn’t smack me this time but rather, stuff just happens.

My poor cerebellum, it has made no big moves against me to deserve these beatings. Each one worse, piling onto the heap of the last, and barely do I need to bounce anymore, even the, oh it’s barely just a bump’s, they stop me.

The searing pressure, like C-clamps, ear to ear. I should be able to feel the drip-drip-drip, very fast drips of blood spilling from my head but somehow, the trauma stays locked inside.

I have tried, I’ve really tried, to protect my upper story. Me thinks I’ll need this thought machine more later than sooner, and I hope it holds on, my cognitive function, but fearing he may turn against me, the little commander upstairs.

I have tried, I’ve really tried, not to damage what has already mostly endured and weathered so much abuse. All the motorcycles, gone. The snowmobile, gone. The jet ski, gone. The trampoline, gone. The long-travel MTB made just for hucking, gone. I’m trying, I’m really trying, but this here brain, this here battered birdbrain, even more than my bleeding heart, this here brain, hurt yet again.

Time to sit, time to rest, time to rest this here silly, silly bird brain.