I’m less than optimally medicated today, but it shouldn’t be a problem as there is nothing that must be done, and the last true Queen of the Visayan cannibals is tending to my needs.  I’ll probably get around to painting in a while.  I’ve barely gotten up after sleeping late, then having a nap.

Last night (this morning?) I dreamt I was in Afghanistan, dressed in local garb, roaming around the poppy fields and cannabis patches, and drinking morphine-laced tea with smiling Afghani farmers.  They knew from the whiteness of my beard that I was just an old witch-doctor, come seeking medicine for the sick-at-heart.  When I told them that there were people in pain in America, they offered gifts of the best hashish, and opium, as well as dried poppy seedpods, for tea.  They said they hoped America felt better soon.

The smiling farmers also admired my weapons, which I let them examine.  They were armed themselves, in the local fashion, with a motley variety of beat-up Kalashnikovs.  My old lever-action Winchester 94 rifle amused them.  I think some of them might have seen American western movies somewhere, maybe on DVD.   They were also intrigued by my revolver, a Smith and Wesson Model of 1917, chambered for .45 ACP, carried in half-moon clips. It was made for the First World War, and made to last.  They made a joke about the lanyard which looped around my neck, and clipped onto a ring on the butt of the revolver.  They said that if I was afraid of dropping my gun, maybe I shouldn’t carry it.  :)

I woke up, in pain as usual, and for a moment thought of asking for poppy pod tea.  Coffee and Tramadol must suffice for the nonce, at least until I can hike into Afghanistan again.