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A strange day/ Strange workin. Dan still in bed when I left and cut a path through the forest to Watson Pond. I've been calling this new body of water where I daily swim and from which I drink, unfiltered, a lake. But now I know its name. Awoke today groggy as hell from all the codeine but thankful that at best the tooth is out. So why the haze? I dunno. Last night's dreams perhaps. Dreamed that Dan and I had a big fight and awoke with that unsettling sense of insecurity that surrounds every potential reality shift. Now my right hand, my writing hand, has going numb again. Must have that looked at. Tooth number 31, the dentist said. And the tool that he used to extract the offending tooth from my jaw was the exact match of an antique one Dan brought me, albeit a day late, the morning after which in a fit of pain and determination to end said pain, I had launched an all out assault with various pliers, a crescent wrench, a 16 penny nail, and a hammer, yet failed to get is out myself. A hundred dollars lighter in pocket, I walked out of the Maine dentist's office shaking my half-numb head at the irony. The package arrived via General Delivery today from one Gary Thorenson, or some such gibberish pseudonym of my good goodies package man out west. You see, I turned him on to the pleasures of Klonipin (Stevie Nick' drug of choise), and he turned me on to the joys of snorting Ritalin, and then I imparted my knowledge of a few other pharmaceutical "secrets" and then, down the road when I was decidedly AGAINST a world w/o Klonipin (after 3 months w/o kicked up a whole can of REALITY worms), well, he came to the rescue with a handful of K's. It was kind and also warranted given that one of my empty scrip bottles was the key that unlocked the medicine chest for him via a south-of-the-border refill run. The 10x16 foot deck I build Dan is now as pea green as an old army sock. Dan's choice. Gotta love it. Despite the presence of two erect tents, the huge flat deck, and newly renovated interior in the trailer, Dan sleeps in his minivan, tossing and turning in slanted sleep on the uphill grade of his dirt driveway. My new friends Mary and Ben (her husband) in Houston were pivotal figures
in helping me maintain focus and perspective driving my hellish Duke engine
transplant last April/May. Mary has been sending me letters from Duke
igniting a truly hilarious correspondence between an art car and its owner. Duke
it seems is much more at home in the humid Houston summer than I, and is
in fact loving it down there, swappin tranny fluids with a different girl
art car every night. Now Mary wants to do a "Rolling Stone-esque"
interview w/celebrity Duke, and who am I to argue? GOIVIT, as an old friend's
license plate read (think Roman numerals). Recently I'm told said friend
climbed inside his Volvo, shut all doors and windows and struck a match
in a pool of gasoline, sending himself and the Volvo rocketing thru the Pearly
Gates @ 10.21 Gigawatts of combustible conviction, (intensionally, it
is assumed). Now that's what I call going IV it. - RSM
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