Slow Train

Up at 6:22 a.m., with big memories arriving at 6.23, 6.25... And then at 6:26, when I saw that I forgot to turn Mr. Coffee off last night (no harm to the caraffe, apparently. They tell you to throw it away if it's ever left to scorch on the burner, which reminds me of the shampoo industry's advice to "lather,rinse, repeat").

The other two memories were that a missing friend called me last night; and then that I'd emailed my resume for another position at the paper where I work (something, I hope, inside the building this time.)

Two surprises, then! Like, Oh! Hm! Well, I'll be switched, etc. Like, when you wake up drunk. "Speak, Memory!"

Mostly I'm surprised that I applied for the job, which would be as an applications programmer. I distinctly remember shouting "NO!" the other day while I was shaving. That seemed final, especially with the resulting blood.

An oath, that was. No South Park city job for me, just yet.

Now, will money avalanche in exchange for a possible case of neuraesthenia? Fair exchange, considering how much money I owe to my mama.

The Shadow knows. Or, The Sleeping Beast, according to "Rational Recovery".

I keep all my demons in a box, by the way. Here's a picture of a picture of the box which is not a box.



(Yes, I've had my brush with Post-Modern Theory, mostly from the great humorists who make fun of it.)

(And if that picture does not strike you as nitemarish, you may be downright spiritually fit.)

Meantime. I always forget about Wednesdays. I asked someone today, have I worked a Wednesday here before?? Because all this seems new to me. This hoopla, I mean. And the giant buzz-saw and the pulp-maker and the apparent explosions.

My supe overheard somehow, during a lull, (clanging, whistling, bell ringing din) and said:

"Well! Wednesday comes but once a week!"

Then he turned away with perfect timing, so I could just catch him rolling his eyes.

On Wednesdays the newspaper is twice as fat with advertisements, and we print three times as many. But I've never seen the inserter run so fast, or sound so much like a locamotive. (And yet, I must have. I work Wednesdays plenty.)

Someone said we were doing 17,000 copies an hour. For a second I had the silly idea that this meant we'd all be home sooner.

I'm tired like I've been roughed up. I'm numb. At the end of the shift my left hand was covered in blood or red ink, I couldn't tell which. (I know now. It was blood after all, probably from a wooden pallet-splinter.)

Got home just as some drugular criminals were pulling up in a Missouri hillbilly truck to cart a pool table away from our basement. Boy were they in great spirits to pick up their free pool table.

They had a chickie with them, I recognized from my Dual Diagnosis residential treatment center. Her name is Sunshine and her best friend is her mother who also shoots speed.

I might have/should have greeted her, but saw her before she saw me. (Maybe). Last summer, Sunshine brought crack cocaine into that house--alledgedly--- and the result was in no way similar to the burning of the Reichstag. Seriously, it wasn't at all. After a few months of sober reflection, I'm surprised I bring it up, even.

She (Sunshine) still looks sick. I sympathize more than ever. God, what can you do for people like that?

Handcuffs worked for me, but that was after a lot of studied effort on Ma Kettle's (and other's) parts (including of course my saintly mother). Studied and steady. I knew I was dying. Ma Kettle knew it, like no one else could. I was communicating with her.

Less and less of this sort of talk later. I promise.

So, special thanks for the visit today.

j-jackson