The Unswung Bat

Friday, July 22, 2005

I'm short four wisdom teeth, which had to go as they were making way too much of a fuss. Or whatever teeth make when they're impacted. At any rate I'm still feeling clever enough to write a blog entry.

My wisdom teeth, or "third molars," as they liked to be called, hadn't erupted through the gumline, but they had put roots deep into my jaw, and were leaping out sideways to headbutt my good teeth. They were big, too, a lousy fit for my modestly sized mouth.

Friends who'd had their wisdom teeth taken out warned me how very, very much the recovery period was going to suck, there being so many nerves running through the mouth ready to cause pain and angst. Fortunately I am equipped with four bottles containing pills, each of which in turn contains valuable drugs. Either those drugs really really work, or the puny human nerves lining my jaw were accidentally removed in the operation, leaving their job to a previously dormant, powerful set of backup nerves, fashioned of steel or some similarly ferrous alloy. As it is, I feel no worse than if I'd been punched in the jaw about half a dozen times, which is way better than I'd hoped. We'll see how I'm doing tomorrow.

Also I can't talk, at all basically.

But enough about me, how about you?

Now I'm tired again and gonna sleep for about half a day. 'Night, then.

Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Still Green

Yes, well.

One of those late nights at a bar, of which I haven't had nearly enough this year, or this lifetime come to think of it. An encounter, unsolicited and except in one forever sorry spot of bruised soul un-particularly-wanted meeting with an old friend long since lost became the crowning element. The - I hesitate to say it - real value of the encounter was more than anything else in retracing with a friend of old and inarticulable importance some familiar lines of hurt, knowing in advance through that selfish prescience of shared pain that the familiarity would be mutual.

One of the few situations into which I can dredge up a hurtful memory, knowingly and to an extent for my own benefit, without being a total bastard toward everyone else. In fact one of the few situations into which I can drag a painful memory at all, bastard or not. A rare misdemeanor, solicitation of a complicity already established, silently, in one way or another. Proffering as by ritual the reminder neither of us needs. That old friend looked different this time, maybe a sign of growth on one part or both, or maybe on each. I've always been one to wait and see what time and age jointly bring.

I'd say I'm thankful of the event, in the strange way of a disturbance of the old and genuinely uncomfortable, yes, but if you think I'm altogether glad about it you've been breathing the wrong atmosphere.

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