Allergy Season

 By: Jimmy Hackett

The magical spectacle of neon lights drapes a city scape. This town needs hero. In your head, you are that hero. But the cries of suffering and calls for justice are muted by your congested sinuses. It’s allergy season. And you are next.

The onset of puffy eyes and the lone-plugged nostril are warning signs. An initial feeling of panic is relieved by the memories, the countless memories, of the rough mornings that cleared up after a good teeth brushing and a hot shower. But by mid-morning, the panic returns. There’s been no improvement. In fact, there is now a constant stream of mucus leaving your nose. And after struggling with gurgles in the back of your throat, you concede to the postnasal drip. It’s allergy season. And you need medicine.

You plunge your hands into the collection of medical supplies your family keeps in the kitchen. Or maybe your family keeps it in the bathroom. Wherever you keep it, the contents are the same. A few stray packets of medicine. An old bottle of Tums. A rogue travel-size bottle of shampoo. Nail clippers. Some loose change. And a white powder that permeates the container. The residue of a bygone era of baby powder application. But you’re not looking for baby powder. You’re looking for adult powder in pill form. You’re looking for drugs. The hard stuff. Pseudoephedrine. But there’s nothing pseudo about it. This is the real deal. The kind of deal that needs a parental waiver. Medicine so potent, you actually read the dosage instructions on the back of the box. That is, if you can find the box. If not, you play it safe and take one. And then you remind yourself you aren’t a pussy. So, you take another. It’s allergy season. God help us all.

You’ve now taken two little red pills. It’s time to see how deep the rabbit hole goes. With lightening coursing through your veins, you begin to take risks. Popping red pills and pushing yellow lights. The drugs cause a hyper-focusing of the mind. You begin pondering what a meaningful life looks like. Do we secretly wish for evil, so we may rise to the occasion and destroy it? What does this say about rising to the occasion of ordinary life? What if we fail to achieve greatness in times of comfort? Are we caught in a cycle of destruction for the sake of creation? It’s allergy season. God save us all.

As the pills wear off, you come too in a room of strangers. In the distance you hear the faint lecture about local antihistamines found in honey from the local shaman, aka some dork with a beanie and an online certificate to practice integrated medicine. Their mumblings barely reach your eardrums through your swollen and plugged ear canals. You drift into your mind, taking advantage of the quiet solitude afforded by the out-of-control autoimmune response. It’s allergy season. And you begin to see the strings that control the system.

You started the day with clean shirt. And by noon, you’ve begun to mop up your runny nose with a sleeve. By evening, you’ve started using the bottom of your shirt. And before bed, you take your shirt off and use it to blow your nose. It’s allergy season. And you become the accumulation of filth.

It’s bedtime, and you slip into fever dream. Pushing and pulling in the vacuum of space. Grasping for anything in the free fall. You stretch out your arms and climb up a cliff. Only to jump off it once more, landing in the foamy ocean below. Mesmerized by the kaleidoscope sunset, you claw our way to shore and build your empire. And then your wake up. It’s allergy season. And you see the world keep turning.

By now, others have joined you in sickness. You are just one in the masses of morons blowing your nose, pretending it makes a difference. Blowing out your eardrums for the satisfaction of triggering the “pain means its working” neurons. Bloodshot eyes meet the gaze of a disappointed face staring back in the mirror. We have been here before. And we will be here again. We fight for change and accept the sameness. Has the future always been so familiar? It’s allergy season. And you don’t have any answers.

It’s 4AM, and you’re slowly pouring water into your nose with a neti pot. Water slips off your chest and catches the waistband of your boxers. You’ll deal with that later. As you pour more water, more water spills down the rest of your body, finding its way to your socks. It’s 4AM. It’s allergy season. And you have water in your nose, and your clothes are wet.

Defeat. Defeat is placing a tissue underneath your nose while you sleep. Defeat is breathing through your mouth. Defeat is pretending six hours have passed since your last dose. It’s allergy season. Defeat is in the air.

As the next day begins, you are consumed with the fact that when you die, all your ideas will die with you. We try so hard to think the right things. And in the end, what is the point? It’s allergy season. There is no point.

A sneeze is breeze fighting its way through a squeeze. In such a rush, it never asked “Please?”

Think of all the things we were never creative enough to want. Our desires must be small in the eyes of God. It is allergy season. And it is nothing more than a disruption to the carefully prepared scribble-scrabble agenda of your life.

And it’s tonight. And it’s now. And it’s the cosmos. And it’s the God Mind. And it’s you. And it’s us. Struggling for meaning with the finite chance that we don’t go anywhere when we die. Did we go anywhere when we were living? And we’re scared. And we’re brave. And we’re together. And we’re alone. And it’s morning. And It’s allergy season. And your nose is still stuffy.

Then, one morning, you are greeted with a clear nasal passage. You take a deep breath and feel the sunshine fall gently on your face. You remember that much of being ill is simply waiting to get better. It was allergy season. And you survived.