(My Camp at Lake Burning Man)
Everybody has advice on how to conduct or combat your feelings. Some of this guidance must be good, if only by its sheer volume and breadth. There is a complex interworking of codes and conventions, presented as suggestions, designed to prevent you from doing whatever it is that might make you happy. There is an order, a symmetry if you will, to nature and its unfolding.
Recovery is progressing, moving along the abdomen. Health is trying to find its way back in by whichever route is available. The doctor gave me two prescriptions for pain pills, opioids. I filled the second one first and then realized that I had not filled the first one first, which had an expiration date on it that must have expired before the first. So, I went to the pharmacy and presented it for their inspection. They asked when I would like to have it filled and I enthusiastically told them as soon as possible, that I was in enormous pain and not to worry about addiction issues.
A few minutes later the woman defending the sweet chemicals told me that my insurance company rejected the prescription, saying that it was "too soon" from the previous one being being filled. I asked if they believed themselves to be more informed than my own doctor. The gatekeeper said that they can't really communicate back to the insurance company, they just get codes letting them know what they can and can't do.
I stared at her wart.
I then carefully explained that my car ran out of gas on my way to work at Sea World and its up on the interstate now and I walked here and all I need is six dollars to get to work or otherwise I'll lose my job and I have seven kids and I'll suck your cock and lick your ass. Please, I need crack, man. I need crack, now.
I have what is known as an addictive personality.
I love it when people say this to me. Truly. It's a way of saying that they've never tried things and don't really ever care to. Nobody of interest has ever uttered the sentence. I'll usually follow up their declaration and admission with a short speech about retirement funds, the benefits and pitfalls of good cross-market diversification against moderate high yield investing. Or, why it's important to avoid any meal that shows up with an "All You Can Eat …" preceding it.
I have a few personality quirks, I've been told, and am familiar enough with the systematic disorganization of the senses, but I don't believe I have ever looked anybody in the eye and claimed to have an addictive personality, unless maybe in jest.
Wait, you have an addictive personality. Is it safe, being near you? Are you communicable? Does it ever hurt? I mean, I've never found your personality to be addictive at all, not even interesting, actually. Are you sure you have this dreaded malady?
What can one do. The only hangover cure that works for some is abstinence.
Yesterday I confirmed my usual last-minute plans to go to Burning Man, a sort of celebration of the idea of radically addictive personalities. Things fell into place. Things often do when there is a woman to consider. The universe smiled on me, though that might have just been the arc of the Milky Way moving by. I checked with the ticket holder, verified the time off from work, made sure that the previous wife could watch the boy while I wander high across the playa flats in search of someone's spirit animal, then looked with interest at my bank accounts, considered transferring cash from one imaginary place to another, pondered places to shop for the Burning Man Casual Couture Collection, etc., etc.
So little to do, so much time.
So little to do, so much time.
Yes, I will return again to the high-plains meeting place, the agreed upon spot where we will organize to dismantle the plans of yet another year's heist.