This night nurse's name is Peter. "Do you like dirty jokes?" he asks me. He is removing the layers of bandages on my leg. No I say somewhat untruthfully turning my eyes to the grey and white screen of my Toshiba T3300SL.
Arts Wire: Chris is camping on the Blue Ridge Maintain Parkway. Full moon, sweet mountain water, he says, and I *am* there - in a blue mountain tent by the river while Peter spreads bacitracin like butter on a white row of aquafor gauze.
"Help me, help me," Marilyn (came West from Kentucky long ago) moans softly from the adjacent bed - high thin voice as fragile as her cancer riddled translucent ancient skin. Her daughters visit her every day. I look forward to warm Southern sound of their voices.
Chris and his companion are on the road again in a Mercedes with Virginia license plates. "leftover summer sausage and peanuts for breakfast" , he writes.
"A priest, a minister and a rabbi were out fishing in a boat," Peter says pressing bacitracin coated gauze on the area of my leg where the skin graft is a large yellow oval.
On the WELL, Tim Collins and Reiko Goto invite me to take a walk down Carson St. Brick row houses, delicatessens, coffee shops, antiques stores. They are entering a pizza shop.