the pyramidal nebusphere

I live at some nebulous latitude in a pyramid of reality.

Jeff’s mom thinks we (and most of the rest of the world) can drop everything and sit in attendance as she makes her nobel prize-winning call to Lou Dobbs at CNN this afternoon. I try to avoid any pointless effort to convey my disbelief or re-orient her to the plane I’m living on, and I give her a noncommital “ok. sounds good. let us know what happens...” But I can hear it in her voice as we hang up...she may be living in a mental sphere in which she holds the solution to all problems, but she still knows when she’s being blown off.

Jeff doesn’t want to take his meds. “What are these for anyway?” “Your condition,” I say. “And what exactly is my condition?” Should I even remind him? Why? But I do. He says, “there wasn’t any real evidence of that, was there? Just some DNA test?” There was no DNA test involved, and I have the tell-tale PET scan in irrefutable hard-copy. I have never shown it to him. He’s never asked. Why should I?

“You should take your pills,” I say. He takes them. Why would I even entertain the thought of giving him a choice in the matter? He doesn’t even know what they’re for. I know why I would. It’s because there is one floor in the reality pyramid on which we stand together to observe and respond to his mother who’s floating around on the LaLa Mezzanine.

But we can’t both return to the rez-de-chaussée where I think I live. As the elevator descends Jeff says “Where’s Becca?” This will be the 5th time I’ve answered the question since she left yesterday morning. “She’s in Frederick, visiting Tyler,” I say. “Right,” he replies, and putters off to move tools around in the basement.

I don’t know where I live, and I have a slight, incipient headache. Eating might help, and then I will look into hot air balloons.