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

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

January 24, 2005

Dialing on an old phone in a London phone booth--red but with a Chinese-style pagoda roof much too big and it's snowing outside and insanely cold and windy--this booth is my safe harbor but I can't connect to anyone and it keeps asking me for more coins which I'm feeding from a tin chocolate box piggy bank slot. The wind is buffeting the booth and I'm frustrated as hell trying to pry off the lid--which unexpectedly opens too easily and now all coins jumping out of my box and scattering while I'm trying to hang onto the phone and few remaining coins. 'These coins are too tiny', I'm thinking. 'They don't look right'. I look at one closely and can see it's not a real coin but instead a token from one of those sad old spinning money machines from ancient L.A. buses.

Lying in bed next to my old paint-chipped and dusty window on Bellevue Avenue. Wind rushing past along the driveway between duplexes. I can see Luticia watching T.V. in the reflection of her bathroom mirror. I look out on the ground and see snow and I tell Mom and she doesn't seem at all surprised. 'It used to snow a lot in Los Angeles. It snowed the day you were born.' I'm amazed beyond belief at this and thinking it had to have been an omen and so now hunting sad browned Herald Examiner newspaper stacks in the garage out back but they're too old and crumble in my hands. There isn't any snow on the ground when I look out now--just my grandmother digging up weeds in the garden next to the sad old splintered porch.


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