Waking Finnegan

“We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and our whole life is rounded with a sleep” ~ Shakespeare

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Location: zurich, Switzerland

Thursday, December 16, 2004

December 16, 2004

Leafing through a tiny black book not a Bible or Koran but written in a kind of illuminated micro script. 'In Memory of the The Book of Celtics' on the first page. It looks to be incredibly ancient, but the tiny script seems too perfect, as though it were manufactured on a computer using hand-script font. There are Aubrey Beardsley style line drawings of various religiously-garbed men and women in model-struck poses. The surface of the parchment feels embossed. The book feels much too heavy for its size.

Trying to roll a joint. The grass is much too powdery and dry and I keep fumbling with it. I spill it on the floor and kick at it in frustration. My legs are asleep and I keep trying to get up from the chair and falling. Pins and needles now, but it won't stop. I can move my toes and tell myself I don't have to worry.

Picking up a big parcel from the post office in Kreuzplatz. Woman can't pass it through the window and I tell her: "Koennen Sie es nicht durch die teure geben?" "Can't you hand it to me through the door"? She tells me not to instruct her on how to do her job and proceeds to try cramming it through the sliding glass window opening. I tell her to cease and desist. "Es ist meinen schachtel. Bitte gibt mir!" "It's my box. Give it to me!" She and I wrestle with it and she calls a guard who proceeds to hand cuff me. I ask if I can have my box.

Driving with the guard who's now transformed into my old friend Donald Pugh, whom we all called 'Claw', due to the size of his hands. He's in uniform and I ask what he's doing in Switzerland and he says he's married and lives on Kleinstrasse, which is the street that fronts my place and I tell him I'd never seen him. "Where we going?" I ask, and he says he has to do his job but don't worry and then pulls out a huge joint and asks me for a light. I see the grass is powdery and spilling out. I can't find matches or lighter. My jeans have a somewhat shiny coating like leatherette but it could be crocodile skin I think. The car is stuck in low gear and the engine is racing; people all around staring. Donald's gone. Just me and the racing engine. I try to get out and the door's not opening. Latch pulls but nothing happens. I pull harder and it breaks off. I go to open the driver's door and the same thing happens. I start climbing into the back and see there are packages stacked neatly. I can't get to the doors.


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