What's Up

It’s a curious phrase that doesn’t conjure up images of altitude sick mountaineers, unstrapping their boots, unsheathing their ice axes, and loosening up any leftover gear for a little impromptu summit sunbathing. What some people call the “death zone,” high above the clouds where brain damage prospers, I call a liberating environment of unadulterated freedom. A person can easily be trapped by a high IQ. Why else would we call them “brain cells” if not for their obvious connection to the prison industrial complex? 

But for me, no fly-by-night sherpa with a hefty pack, the question of what is up bothers me. Always has. It’s not to be confused with who is up, which in a city of millions and millions, is usually someone. In the small hours, the wildest among us find the time to pry their eyes open. The eternal neon of certain neighborhoods helps. So does a steady stream of pharmaceuticals.

I suppose I’m supposed to say, “nothing much.” That’s what’s up. Though logic says that the answer could be my hair or the floating locks of an animal caught up in the many thousands of BTUs pulsing through my home. This depends on the humidity and one’s relative follicle turgidity (RFTs). The ceiling could be up, unless its cracks weren’t repaired properly, thus lowering them to floor level.

Trees? Yeah, they could be up, too, unless it’s storming. Then limbs are raining along with heavy precipitation. Tall buildings can be up unless it’s demolition time in the big metropolis. Planes can be up as long as they aren’t landing. Birds are up unless the ground is scattered with seed.  

The list goes on and on. Balloons and bald eagles, clouds, heaven itself, and sometimes a lost hang glider. 

All in all, all this talk about has gotten me feeling pretty down. Which I guess is what’s up.