downtown Bakersfield, circa 1977

A not so great day. Reading lots of theory. Speech-act, discourse analysis, etc. Revisited Thomas Pavel’s Fictional Worlds. It’s all very confusing and hair-splitting, but at the same time it’s fascinating. Everytime you say something, it’s an act. We make things by saying things. Let there be . . .

Renewed the tags on my car. Sometimes I feel like I must really look weird. I stood in one line. They told me to go to another person. When I got there, I realized that they didn’t mean me, but someone else. I stood there and patiently waited. A woman in the other line just kept staring at me, as if she expected me to say something. I didn’t. She just wouldn’t stop staring. I stared back. Then, a guy opened up just for me. I told him I really wasn’t in a hurry. He said he was tired of looking at me standing there. What’s up with that? Is my third eye in my forehead showing?

The man chastised me severely for making out my check wrong. Then, when we were finished he said:

Thank you doctor.

Huh? My driver’s license or my checks don’t say doctor. What was funny about it was that it came on the heels of my exchange with Dr. Kleine on Wednesday, where he insisted that I needed to be in a doctoral program somewhere. Just before I left, there was a program on TV about anxiety disorders which named the doctor that treated Kim Bassinger for the problem: His name was Dr. Doctor.

Doctors, Doctors everywhere. But not me. No, I don’t deserve that promotion. Even if I had a doctorate I wouldn’t want to be called doctor.