More mosquitoes, more theater.


Hail the size of BBs fell from the sky on the walk home this afternoon, and strangely I found it a preferable alternative to the thousands of mosquitoes I’d be facing otherwise.  Walked to work today on an old boardwalk connecting 1st Avenue Access Rd. to the site of the old hospital – a ground with stilts still beaten into the permafrost located behind the eye clinic.  There, I was swarmed.  Had my face well protected with OFF, but the damn things bit me on the parts of my hairline not covered by my hat.  I think I’ll take the main road tomorrow.

Last night was my first official play rehearsal, and the Bethel Actor’s Guild seems amazingly adept at theatrics.  They’re not quite the amateurs I expected in a place like this.  I, on the other hand, can’t seem to find my muse, even for a collection of one-acts.  In the first, I’m a grief-stricken homosexual, and in the second, a college student holding his breath while the moon rises.  Good fun, these shows.


3/4/09 – Really?  I say I can’t find a muse to play a grief-stricken homo?  Am I serious?


In clinic today, a village elder came in, fresh from the pneumonia ward.  One wonders why, after having been cooped in the pneumonia ward for days, a village elder would opt to have his eyes checked.  I suppose that’s not for me to say.

As it was, at 1:00 in the afternoon, a wheezing, bronchial coughing old man perched in the waiting room as a walk-in.  I was in my room in the back when I heard the throaty death rattle and throat clearing begin.  It sounded not unlike a goose honking, only more sustained, as the man was clearly expecting fluid.  After several minutes of this, I queried the receptionist as to the status of this gentleman.


3/4/09 – “What the fuck is going on out here? ” I asked.


One might ask, at this time, exactly what an “elder” is.  I think, sometimes, that it’s a creation of crazy white people, because nobody seems to be able to define what it takes to be an elder.  One must be a native American, it would seem, and in ones sixties at the youngest.  Or at least looking sixty.

It’s difficult communicating through a language barrier, much less to somebody with an old-school culture whose values and traditions I still don’t necessarily understand.  Perhaps I must work harder.


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