Gordon Lightfoot “If You Could Read My Mind”
 Dean Martin “Gentle on My Mind”
If you could read my mind, I’d prepare you a hot mug of cocoa as you’d be bloody well needing it. I’ve tried to sort through the jumble for over forty years now and still find my in-tray fuller than my out-tray. It’s not that I haven’t learned a great deal along the way, particularly when the spotlight has needed to turn back on myself. Some data goes in, other particulars pass from ear to ear without so much as a “how do you do?” but I’m always looking to make sense of anything deemed beneficial in the greater scheme of things. Granted, I do have a penchant for pointless information that holds little to no nutritional value to any other mind but my own. But I always did like rooting for the underdog. It may be a 5000-1 shot that the conversation will ever veer into the filmography of Richard Masur, but should these lengthy odds be beaten, then please don’t inform him of my secret man-crush. What can I say? It’s the ‘tache. I’m a suffering sucker for ‘tache.
If you could read my mind, then I’d hedge a bet that you’d give me a big tight hug shortly after. I’m benign you see, have absolutely no sinister blueprints for global domination or bad blood towards another. Sap I believe is the correct term but a lovable one, I’ll be quick to point out. I begrudge the grudge in favor of forgiving trespasses, let bygones be themselves, and never bottle water flowing under the bridge. Bitterness just tastes so sour, don’t you think? Holding onto such long-haul burden would grant my dodgy left kneecap no favors whatsoever and, contrary to my latter-day fixation with bringing back fuzzy felt, I’m reasonably assured I’m not growing any younger. That reminds me, next time you see Benjamin Button learning not to crawl, give the old boy a diaper wedgie from me, will you? Ectopic motherfucker. Actually that might have been just a tad harsh. Must be getting cranky in my old age. Remember those days, do you Benjamin? Hmm?
If you could read my mind, then I’d be dreadfully grateful if you paid my heart a visit while you were at it. You see, while the grey matter would simply love to take credit for every bright idea that blossoms and the soul would never dream of fishing for compliments, the heart beats all the harder when having its strings tugged enthusiastically. Call it maître d’ if you will as it’s the ticker responsible for front of house and happens to make for a glorious cuff-link. Given that I mine my gold from prose for a living (minus a solitary carat); it feels only natural to pronounce it master of ceremonies. Each word is a beat, every syllable heartfelt, and I can only offer my sincere apologies for any unforeseen bouts of writer’s reflux as the Spanish Inquisition wouldn’t see that gut-rot coming. Acidic high tide aside, it cannot be denied that I wear mine with great pride. Both tested and tried – it’s a meatier greet when there’s nothing to hide.
If you could read my mind, then you’ll know that I don’t play games. This isn’t to suggest that I can’t entertain, but my smiles don’t derive from my own selfish gain. While others are scheming, I’m too busy dreaming of an end to their sly digs and thin-veiled charades. If I see it, I say it, if I say it, I mean it; don’t then take what I say and find ways to demean it. Likewise, don’t presume that you have me sussed out; it’s a helluva track beyond reasonable doubt. Guilt trips are really not all that hard to spot; if you look up the meaning you’ll find my mug shot. Having carried such burden for too long to tally; I know when I’m being led up this blind alley. If I’ve done something wrong, then I’ll hold up my hand; so I’d thank you to not then make remarks offhand. The second this happens I’ll take two steps back; as I haven’t the strength to deflect snide attacks. Why should I engage, have to vent needless rage, when you don’t even care what I’m going to say? You may well rejoice at the sound of your voice, but speak in forked tongue and you’ll leave me no choice.
If you could read my mind, then you’d find no shortage of optical aid. I’m a visual creature, always have been, and I make no disguise that the eyes are my prize. Whether post-midnight screenings or simply daydreaming, I’m all about seeing and what’s more believing. A great mind is a terrible thing to waste I hear. Thus I take it for long walks and play the sightseer. It matters not whether here or there; provided there’s imagination to spare. I was told that one day it would get me in trouble; but there’s no way on earth they were bursting my bubble. Why shouldn’t I dream of that pie in the sky? After all, in my dreams I’m permitted to fly. The very same rules apply when I write; every word is geared up towards fanciful flight. No limits or ceiling, where there’s sense there is feeling; so there just seems no point holding back or concealing. Fly my pretties fly. And if you could see yourself clear to picking up a pint of semi-skimmed milk while you’re out, that’d be grand.
If you could read my mind, then you could give it a clean. It’s dirty you see, its suggestions obscene. It’s not my intention to shock and appal; that wasn’t the plan when I set out my stall. Okay you’ve got me, perhaps I did feel that literature could do with a shake-up. But it’s not my first thought every morning I wake up. The way I see it, we’re all adults here, give or take a few man-children (myself included). I wouldn’t wish to be the guy who can’t finish a sentence without tossing in an F-bomb just to buy himself some time. Should the overwhelming desire to scream “FUCK! TIT! BOLLOCKS!” become all too much, then I’d much rather stagger them and drop one in when you’re least expecting it. For example – Old Mrs. Pettigrew spends her afternoons tending to her rose garden as she finds it therapeutic and it gives her time to catch up on her reading. Ever since the old dear had her cataracts done, she’s had a fresh lease of life; no less than she deserves since her Wilf passed. She prefers not to talk about that much, but from what I’ve managed to piece together by way of general gist, he sounded like a bit of a cunt. Ha ha. Gotcha!
If you could read my mind, I could read yours too; then think of all the glorious things we could do. It’s ultimately all about locating that common wavelength and tuning into its frequency. With a dash of compliance, we can build an alliance; no great science when the human mind is such a nifty appliance. If great minds can sync up and think alike; then the halfway house ain’t that much of hike. I say we drop our defenses and meet someplace in the middle. How does a 50-50 split sound to you? Hate to be a buzz kill but I’m not really feeling the whole struggle for power deal as it really ought not be that troublesome striking a balance. So whaddya say then? Do we have ourselves a deal? You’ll have to speak up, I’m not a mind reader you know. Or am I?