(Dec 31/05)
It is 3.27am, and I have just discovered a mastoid, perhaps the makings of a goiter, in the anterior meniscus of my head, or what I take to be a head, my head. It is tender and edema-like, or a close approximation of an edema or a wen-ish thing should I know what one looked like, which I don’t, of course. Perhaps the makings of an on top of the head subcutaneous abrasion or distended kartoid or a bulge of some sort or the other, hopefully the other, as I don’t think I could handle the other, other, not just right now, nor ever, I suppose. Perhaps a cigarette would help; at the least do no further harm. Suppositions are for mental cases, so I best stay clear of them, or else, you know, off to the asylum for me. It seems strange that one should be smoking a Matinee cigarette during the evening or early morning, strange in deed, very strange. Perhaps it is I that am strange, and not the strangeness itself. An idle thought at best, pure nonsense at worst, idle thoughtless nonsense, even worse, perhaps. I will buy cigarettes today that can be smoked at anytime during the day, evening, late evening, into the night, and morning. Best to be prepared for all the variables that life can throw at one, especially one who may or may not have something growing inside his head, or what appears to be a head, one’s head, his head, my head, should I have one, a head, that is. I suppose I could have someone else’s head, and not know it, not be conscious of it, that I have someone else’s head, not mine. Idle thoughts, idle head.
It is now 11.32am, and I have just now awoken from unhelpful dreams, mercenary ones if the truth be know, which it must, from time to time, this being one of those times, I suppose. Just remember to leave me out of it, out of the story and fibbing and all, I just couldn’t handle it, now, nor ever, I suppose. Last night I started Cormac McCarthy’s No Country For Old Men, and after reading the first 7 or 8 pages, am pulled in, something McCarthy does with an ease to kill for. Its comforting to know that there are still those masters of the novel, John Hawkes being another fine example, who dare push the boundaries of fiction. Mastoid, wen, subcutaneous or what have you, I am most pleased, pleased in deed.
