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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 and 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
thanx, 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 want to 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 bellbutrin [?], i was a paranoid suicidal maniac
and not in any funny, good gonzo sense.
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. A line form F & L in Vegas: I feel as tho' i have. 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,
to say them on pejoe [?] just random fucked up notes. I know a few things:
i am truly blessed in all i do, for i write; can & do the wind in
the birch & aspen high above blows and the leaves a peaceful pianissimo
play. I am tired. i would swear that last night Dan came & sat on
the deck outside my tent to watch or listen to me sleep. i suppose i should
feel flattered but instead i am just plain creeped out. My oldest friend,
and yet…? Many moons ago he informed me that he was gay. He came
to me, a physical gesture, which time & again he repeats as we meet
more or less annually, and time and again i say NO! Dan. But i dunno if
Dan will ever get it, not at least until he gets laid, & with a zero
batting average at 38, it ain't looking good for the boy. All this code
i.e., '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. No 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 thian the green, green mountains
for BEING me submerged in the cool waters of Watson Pond, the Belgrade
Lakes, ME. 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 4-EVER, 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 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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