"Hi, thanks for calling. Sorry I missed your call. I've been doing a little bit of (unintelligible) somewhere very far away, 4 & 1/2 Light Years as a matter of fact, out here in Alpha Centauri General Hospital, hooked up to a morphine drip, uh, feeling pretty good, no intention of returning to reality any time soon, but uh, if your call is an emergency, let me know and I'll get right back to you. If not, don't expect to hear from me until after 9 o'clock New Orleans time. The, uh, signal is much better from deep space.. at night. Alright. Leave me a message, and, uh, Via con Dios! Adios." -my outgoing message from New Orleans, Jan-April, 2002
April 7, 2002
Awoke, robbed of one hour of my life this morning, to some infernal knocking on my door. Daylight Unsavings Time. Or, in that same vein, Daylight Overdraft Time. Thinking about money a lot in the past week, a sure-fire sign that I have none. At the third aggressive knock sequence, my sleep-stoned brain decided that it wasn't likely that jerko petty thief neighbor of mine who's always trying to sell me his hot wares at odd hours. No, he only ever knocked twice, the second knock accompanied like clockwork by a hollered "Hey, Sir!" or the more familiar "Yo, Boy!" and something about what he had to sell that day.
So this had to be someone else. Who, I couldn't imagine. So I leapt out of bed and ripped open the door, a monster tearing the hinges off a closet door with an intimidating roar. But there was no one there to frighten. Then I spied the U.S. Mail truck, heard its engine start, and ran out after it.
Well, my mentor Chris always told me that thinking about money as though it were already on its way to you worked. For back inside and one swift flick of the right wrist later, out of that Express Mail envelope there popped a $50 check and two little Asian origami-like thingymabobs. Once unfolded they unveiled two twenty dollar bills, one in each little rice paper thingy.
In truth, I knew some money was coming. I just didn't know how much. Shameless glue fiend and all-around Bum Master of the Penniless Artist Existauuuunce that I am, I (shamelessly) called on my dear friend Corky the other day to beg for glue money. She had months ago expressed the willingness to help me should I be down and out and hungry, etc., and I had made it this far without incident. Now, however, I am looking down the barrel of a Texas art car shotgun wedding of two events: one in Dallas next week; the other in Houston at month's end. And I'm broke. But worst of all, I am sans silicone. A major car art No-No.
It's funny in a sad, sick kinda way. For although I'm penniless and the credit cards are maxxed, I have food stamp money aplenty to eat with and (thanks to the last of the credit card dough) a roof still over my head. Oh, and I still have room on the gas card, enough, as it were, to make the impending road trip. And now, thanks to Lady Jan, Queen of the Sacred Cork, and a twenty spot from Ray Bong, I am in glue clover again.
So what if that tooth in the right rear of my mouth crumbled to dust just days after losing my insurance. No matter that rather than doing the final edit on Wal-Mart Boy these past months I've been dicking around with my web site (a.k.a. masturbatory writing). No matter that my psych meds and monthly psychiatric visits cost more than I could ever hope to make working 36 hours a week at Wal-Mart. I mean, whatever the weekly total of hours it is that they keep their zillion employees under to avoid having to pay them any of the benefits that thousands of union advocates fought and died for a century ago, now apparently for nothing. SO WHAT?!!
Sew buttons. Reap what you sew. Button up. Sew seeds of good. Count your seeds. Count your goods. Count your blessings.
I count my blessings in inverse proportions. That is to say, I thank God all the time for the fates that are not mine. And so it is that without an iota of judgement (for any of these could befall me at any time), I thank God that I am NOT:
Via con Dios. Go with God. Get weird. And think of me.