just under the wire. I always do this, at the last second, whatever needs to be done earlier—leave for work; do the journal; say, 'I love you'. And does it count as an entry for today if I start it on the thirteenth, but don't get it posted until the fourteenth?
Had my teeth cleaned today. Found out I have a ..well, the dentist didn't say what it was, just what it wasn't. "It's probably not cancerous, or anything like that." I called it a wart. "Oh no, these things aren't warts, not in here," 'in here' meaning the human mouth, I suppose. The statement, "I wish you'd tell me what it is instead of what it isn't," would've fit in just then very nicely. But I didn't think of it until now. I'm just not at my sharpest after a dental hygienist has been trying to excavate fossils from the roots of my teeth. (Science can now rest assured that no Pre-Cambrian creatures are being missed inside one of my molars.) The dentist referred me to an oral surgeon, I guess because that's who'd cut it off if need be. It's on the side of my tongue way in back. It's been there for years and never bothered me. Just a little spot—not even a bump—with a texture smoother than the, uh.. tongue(?) around it. That was the last time I looked at it. Now it's slightly more than a bump. Changes aren't good, not in warts or moles or things on the side of your tongue. It bothers me now.
I don't mean to be gross, or obsessed with illness. It's just that it's a rather difficult thing to describe, and that's a challenge for me. For me, putting obscure things into words is kinda like catching sight af a really faint star. Their subleties are often lost—or they vanish outright—if you glare right at them. But if you move your focus ever so slightly to the side of them, then it appears, faint but true.
I have to call one of the oral surgeons my dentist recommended. Put that down as one of the things you know I am supposed to do, but probably won't—until the last second.
went to lunch with Eduardo after the dentist. It was a fabulous meal, and we cruised the waiters and the chef. Our waiter was kinda frumpy-plain, but we stayed so long that Paul, a slender pretty-boy queen, took the first waiter's place. I love queens. They have an authenticity which I lack, or so it appears to me. I spent many years repressing any mannerism that might be considered even remotely effeminate, and so in contrast I bestow upon effeminate men a label of authenticity that might well be utterly innaccurate. But I dearly love the thought of a pretty-boy queen whose draft is fathoms deeper than my own and stable through the storm, who might one day let me board her from the heaving deck I'm on.
Paul wrote his last name on the check. Hmmm. Do PBQ's do that all the time, or just for naked-headed handsome men like me?
I'll let you know—at the last second.
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