Symptoms

 Sunday morning, one A.M., I set the alarm-clock-radio to sleep mode. From the radio a voice spills into the room; it’s a talk show. The voice abruptly cuts over the music which is some generic under produced and over processed 80’s synthesizer track. The repetitive patterns of the background music perfectly compliment the repetitive patterns of the talk-show host. The degraded A.M. radio signal appropriately bolsters the obvious flange and phaser effects even as it fades into the ether. The show is another installment of “Coast To Coast”, which features guests who have purported to see demons, angels, yeti’s, and flying saucers. The Host could have been George, Ian, or Art depending on if the show was live or a re-run. It is just a bunch of entertainers interviewing wack-jobs who are compelling enough to peak interest, yet their banality can put me to sleep. In the dark I listen. I listen to guests who are paranoid, callers who are insane, and hosts who are all too understanding. I hear people who have seen “Big Foot” yet they produce no evidence. I hear people abducted by aliens with nothing to corroborate their stories. I hear people possessed by demons, chased by the Jersey Devil, or had an encounter with a Chupacabra who had nothing to show for it…but symptoms. This show bellowing forth from my radio… this macabre meeting place for the radically delusional provides a backdrop for my dreams as I wait for sleep to take me. In the dark, I listen. In the dark, I listen to symptoms.

 Sunday morning, four A.M., I awake to the sound of an over processed synthesizer track. A voice abruptly cuts through the music as it begins to fade. A calming, soothing, reassuring voice washes over another helping of flanger-soup. The repetitive patterns provide the perfect soundtrack for my morning coffee. I defecate to the sound of conspiracy theories and alien rape victims. I shower to the drone of time-travelers and shape-shifters. I get dressed to the whine of preachers and prophets. I start the car and drive off surrounded by the horror of the undead, ignoring the impending Apocalypse…to buy groceries.

  Even the damned need to eat.

 I always dread the ending of the show, as the ending ushers in the beginning of my day. When my day starts it is still night; it is still dark. I do not like to wait for shoppers to crowd the store. I dread seeing a full parking lot. I am running late, so I will take back the returnables next week. Now that the show is over, the early-morning news-feeds hijack my radio. Some country suffers an earthquake. A Tsunami washes away another densely populated island. A man gives birth. A bus crashes. A building burns. In the dark, I listen to symptoms.