Short and Forceful Trigger (TPU, 1.2.4.6)

Bill Dazzler in Argument (TPU, 1.2.4.5)

Hoopscanner (TPU, 1.2.4.4)

Here is the Airport---Where is My Garage? (TPU, 1.2.4.3)

Corduroy Tube Hat (TPU, 1.2.4.2)

Tentatively Horizontal

"Fortuitous Recovery of High-Costumed Remains"

Now I don't feel so good.  Of what value is my meditation if it doesn't take away my fear--my cold, unreasoning fear?

It's odd how my fear seems to dredge up a thousand memories--as if readying myself to say goodbye to them.  For instance, I can suddenly remember exactly how my mother's post office used to smell.  My sister and I used to get off the school bus at our town's post office every day.  My mother was the postmaster.  The old building was heated by natural gas.  The interior was ancient wood, many times painted.  There were wanted posters in the lobby.  Nostalgia and escapism--only maybe I should be focused on the Now?  The Escapism of the Now?

Can't think straight.   Just got some more bad news.  Vague bad news.

Oh well, it can't be much worse than it already was.  No townhouse in a big city, no contract with an art gallery, no famous friends or rich uncles. Back when I used to drink, my predominant mood or emotion when intoxicated (everybody has one) was self-pity.  I think Björk should run me over with the Beastie Boys' robot.

Sorry I had to paste in her name with a different font.  So lazy.  Forgive me, Army of You.

Perfume that Smells Like Dough (TPU, 1.2.4.1)

Tentatively Horizontal

“How Will They Get Along Without Me?”

               

                Once I began to sleep a little better, I started having intense dreams.  Some were disturbing, like a grassy depression in the earth at one of the poles wherein a heap of circular bones lay.  Others were encouraging, like one in which I put my head in a special bucket full of some restorative fluid.  Someone turned a lever and cranked the stuff around, sending waves of optimism into me.

                Eventually this column will evolve into a more coherent expression.  Either that, or it will become yet another vehicle for my goofy one-page stories.

“Your stories make no sense,” somebody will comment.  I know who this someone is.

I’m sort of in limbo at the moment.  Maybe one more day and I’ll have a really good sleep.  When I woke up today after the head-in-the-bucket dream I got out of bed going, “Wow.  Wow.  Wow,” out loud.  I don’t feel particularly inspired or motivated at the moment, but at least I’m not totally paralyzed by depression.

I’ve been listening to a lot of music during this “convalescence.”  I discovered a Herbie Hancock record in the last 24 hours called “Dedication.”  I’d never heard of it before.  Sometimes you find exactly what you need when you need it.  I think if I’d never taken drugs I wouldn’t feel so out-of-sorts right now.  The similarity between my present state and the feeling when you’re out of some kind of dope is just too much.  It’s creepy.  It’s like being in a strange Laundromat in the middle of the night.

I said in an earlier column that I’ve been listening to Donald Fagen lately.  I wonder how much existential trauma that guy’s been through.  Long before David Letterman went off the air I had stopped watching during to my schedule.  I found a clip of Fagen performing “Weather in My Head” on Letterman.   I couldn’t believe how old Dave looked.  Anyway, Letterman comes up to Fagen after the performance and asks how he is.  After a brief consultation with himself, Fagen replies, “I’m wonderful.”

I Didn't Know!