"Forgetting well is as important as remembering well," said author Michael Pollan and I seem to be unable to either.
So, these images haunt me nightly among other regrets, though I can say the window doesn't leak so I finally don't have to worry about my Xanadu album getting wet along with my other precious LPs.
"Blah blah blah....Oggy....Officer Tompkin.....Open Up!"
Even in my feverish sleep I realized I'd been sleeping through at least two minutes of pounding on my van. I could hear a police radio dispatcher calling out my license plate number.
"Eh?" I called out as I untangled my neck from my filthy fleece blanket.
"I want to talk to you, Mr. Bleacher."
I almost said, "About what? Am I double parked?" but I said instead..."Alright. Hold on," as I climbed out of my sweaty sleeping bag to piss in a nearby milk jug. This was automatic. I tried to remember where I had parked the night before but when you move and move for three straight years you tend to forget. If I looked out and saw the gulf of Mexico I would not be surprised. Or the court house, or an iceberg or the Rocky Mountains. It could be anywhere. I wake up and start my day as I can. I figure out where I am and then move on from there.
I muttered, "Jesus christ. Can't get a full night's sleep to save my life." as I hunted for my underoos. I couldn't find them and put pants on with my balls swinging around the ragged pockets. Couldn't find my socks either so I figured, "Fuck whoever books me into police custody. They'll get an eye full of my halitosis and tonail fungus."
Did I say this out loud? I've been talking to myself lately and having good conversations.
I found my shoes and was prepared to say, "Can't a guy take a nap in the middle of the day?" and I chuckled as the background of this statement would be a wood stove, a disco record and an unfinished bowl of macaroni and cheese perched atop a pile of dirty laundry and a moped. I opened the door thinking at least my DMV license would give them a laugh. But I couldn't find my wallet. Oh, christ, this would be an interesting conversation with the police. Where's my camera?
I opened the van door up and nearly hit the side of the Chicken man's resurrected lesbo truck. He was having a good laugh, assuming I had opened my curtain to see who was pounding on my van at 8:30 AM. But I hadn't and believed I was confronting Portsmouth's finest in a showdown like Dillinger outside the Biograph Theater.
Thus began my day that produced a self-explanatory poem:
"I ate a fiberglass sandwich for breakfast,
A sheetrock calzone for lunch,
A broken glass pizza for dunner
and a kick in the ass for brunch."
I should be an expert on busting up tile but nothing about demolition is easy. If someone before you did their job right then their work will not collapse under a sledge hammer or a nasty look. You will have to burn your fingers on glowing hot sawzall blades and chew your nails as the toilets overflow onto your shoes. But it will fight you with every slotted screw they jammed home back in 1991. But I'm not picky and I have to respect that my buddy was trying to save me from myself by keeping me busy and maybe buy me a few hours of distraction from my own worst intentions. So I will take a sledge hammer to a toilet or a claw hammer to a bath tub because I have painted myself into a corner of despair with long drying laquer that will take weeks to dry and every step I take leads to another corner and I dream of playing piano until my resentments turn into lyrics that lonely poets kill themselves while singing and dreamers etch on subway walls. Until then I will live in a self absorbed bubble of egoism, digitally kicking tires of motorcycles I can't afford.