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

Saturday, January 22, 2005

January 22, 2005


Curly baroque letters; etched on a chicken bone that I'm examining up close--but can't read clearly--much too tiny. Running my fingers over it trying to decipher what's written but instead get a small sliver and it hooks into my thumb skin but it doesn't hurt so I dangle it around. But it breaks off and drops on the dining room table.

I'm with D.K. in a weed-overgrown corner of a train yard washing down a large wooden freight car with ornately laquered slats--can see there are animals inside--dim light from within won't reveal their identity. A big one kicks the back of the car with a sudden violence and dust is shot through the slatting and I can't swallow because my open mouth is dirty inside all dry-caked. My eyes have grit and I'm wondering if I'd put on my contact lenses. I hear a woman inside with the animals speaking Chicano to them in a lullabye voice.

In some forlorn port section of Oakland. Barges and tugboats all half submerged and bobbing in rusty, slime-grease water. The sunset is molten red orange and I put on my sunglasses and it all animates like an old silent film. I hand my 3-D viewing glasses to Ty and say: 'Look!' He takes the glasses and says he can't see anything. Laughs at me and says I'm blind.

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