Rosemary Nissen-Wade: Aussie poet and teacher of metaphysics – a personal view
My bestie nicknamed me SnakyPoet on her blog, and I liked it. (It began as
'the poet of the serpentine Northern Rivers' and became more and more abbreviated.)
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Sunday, February 06, 2011

Writer's Journal (exercise): In Search of Eddie's Mind

(after he claimed to have lost it)

I go in with my flashlight. Yes, the skull cavity looks reassuringly normal. The brain is here, folded over upon itself in all the requisite tucks and tangles. Nothing unusual there. But when I look for the mind that is supposed to be housed therein, well it just ain’t present. That’s a bit of a shock, I can tell you. I know I know, he said it was gone, but you can’t trust every idiot that tells you that. Usually there’s one in there somewhere, just not being used the right way, or blocked somehow. But this one — it really is just plain gone. Disconcerting!

I look around for sign of exit holes. Or did it simply evaporate? I see no signs of lingering mist or gaseous vapours. No, I’d say it got out whole. Entire I mean. THROUGH a hole of some kind. Could it have slipped down his throat? Well no, the brain has no direct entry into the gullet. Perhaps into the spinal cord? I take a gander, as far down as I can see. Not a trace. Of course it’s hard to see around all those knobs and things, but you’d find some evidence of the spine having been discombobulated a trifle, or maybe the nerves would have swelled up as the mind transformed entirely into nervous impulses.

Nope. Get it, it’s truly really GONE. Not here. Absent. Left this place. Room vacant.

There’s a worry. If it’s left, what will arrive to occupy the space? Where IS that hole? I’ve got to plug it up quick. You never know what might come through.

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