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Scribbled all over all surfaces of a brown paper bag advertising Freshly Baked Bagels from Dunkin' Donuts?, with the byline, "Discover Great Coffee at DunkinDonuts.com"… [apologies from the webmaster, who's becoming too overwhelmed with our protagonist's profuse production to proof-read properly] Where was I? Oh yes. Cartoon creamsicle codeine dream cabin on opium-orgasm-little-waves on the shore lap-lap lake. The other night i fell asleep in mid-sip, my cup-o-noodles soup cooling too slowly for my pain pill & pilsner soft whumping thump thwack to the head nighty-night at-cold-going agenda. Earlier
that day i had made my second visit (in one week) to the Maine General
ER in Augusta to get more codeine and generally make a pest of myself
in the name of dental pain. Whilst there, a light bulb went on in the
damp dark cellar of Gonzo Central and i had the wherewithal & tenacity
to throw in that i was damn near out of depression meds and that if they
didn't want a bridge-diver on their hands, they'd better pony up some
drugs ASAP. Actually i was much more civil and meek than that. Kudos and
sincere gratitude to the people of Maine General for seeing me twice without
ever asking for payment and for supplying me with almost $400 worth of
maintenance depression meds. I was floored when they gave me without blinking
an eye, a whole month's supply of both my depression meds. In New Orleans,
the Daughters of Charity clinic could only give me scripts – great
thanks, but the pills cost me $10/day. So thank you , Augusta, Maine, and
especially you Stacey (you know who you are) who fast-tracked the vouchers
so quickly and all. I won't mention Stacey's last name, due to the rather
outlaw nature of this writer's work (wouldn't want to get her in trouble).
Enough. Truly it was all on the up-and-up, and for all my silliness &
stated substance abuse, i really would be at great risk without the meds.
The last time i was off Wellbutrin, i was a paranoid suicidal maniac
and not in any funny, good gonzo sense. Maine! One big-ass dude dentist and his tooth-pulling tool the exact match for the one Danny gave me. But it wasn't all bad. There was the doggy bag, the codeine-to-go with your codeine, sir thank you and have a nice day! In the dentist office, high on synthetic opium and slurring wildly through 1/2-numbed lips, i demanded to know who there in that office was responsible for putting nerves in teeth and WHY goddamnit? Why the hell do teeth need nerves? I've got about 6 in my mouth now totally de-rooted and capped and they work just fine! I want answers, God! And don't give me that "i was carrying you" line. i don't buy it. Rapidly
running out of steam here in Bumfuck Central. If the chain on Danny's
chainsaw were any looser it would be a hula-hoop. I built a huge deck and
logged a small forest with that little craftsman piece-o-shit, and the
chain has had it. Did you know "The Clintons" signed into law
that we the people cannot take home our pulled teeth? I can see it now,
The Tooth Fairy on CNN in shackles busted for interstate biohazard transport.
Insanity. Speaking of insanity, Dan's mother – a raving fruitcake
who regularly reminds me that my writing "is terrible," stands
before the TV set posing as the Statue of Liberty and blocking Dan's view
until he gets up and does her bidding. I shiver at the thought of life
in that woman's house. Service worker of life's problems. Soon as it
tackles one, it moves right on to the next often without pause to thank
the Universe for "getting me out of that one!"
Know your audience. It's an English 101 standard. Honestly, i haven't a clue. i mean, who are you people? "Your friends," my conscience says. Well, good. Okay. I hope so. But who else? Wait, i don't like where this is going. Fuck it.
Feeling highly vulnerable tonight. Who came up with that word? Vul-ner-able.
What is "Vul" and how did i become enabled in the ways of Vul?
It occurred to me today whilst building this deck, whilst "Fucking
this duck" as Houston Hunter put it when one day not long ago he
caught me in the sinful act of passenger-seat-drinking, that i had fucked
this duck before, quite a few times in fact and that in all honesty its
quack was beginning to lack. Oh! I'm so sorry Mrs. Kennedy. If I had
1/2 a brain i'd be dangerous, but i do believe this is only about 1/8
of your hubby's brain on my person so all is well. It's all over but the
crying. A line from F & L in Vegas: I feel as tho' i have nothing to write, no strength in my hands or in brain to say the things i ramble to myself here alone in the woods, just random fucked up notes. I know a few things: i am truly blessed in all i do. As I write, the wind in the birch & aspen high above blows and the leaves a peaceful pianissimo play. I am tired. All this codeine is not a good thing. Fun at first, but then…pffffttt. Like a dying helium balloon a few daze after the party, but this tooth thing. Ugh. I've really needed the damn things. Now this hole in my mouth, the nagging feeling that it means so much more, that it means, "the forlorn rags of growing old" are coming soon to a notepad near you….er, me. A dying-fire. A sore back. The 1/2 moon playing hide & seek-in-the-twilight
cloud cover. My teeth chattering as i thank the green, green mountains
for BEING, me submerged in the cool waters of Watson Pond, the Belgrade
Lakes, Maine. All the damn slugs on everything & that spider the size
of a baseball hiding under my notebook on the chair. Tooth #31 gone from
my mouth FOREVER, a scary thought. This whole place, this primitive "camp"
in the Maine woods that i have worked like a dog to cultivate, who cares,
who cares? And my father on the phone in NH, no Maine. He actually works
here in Maine, so i say here i am, are you gonna come up here, have lunch with
me, dinner? Something? Nope. Not practical. But what's your plan, son?
What's your plan? I have no plan. I am a dead man walking.
(seems to follow above)
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