The Borrowed Studio and the Fruit-Like Tooth

A dream of a deceased friend, [person A].

[person B] and [person C] share a painting studio. Within the next few days, [person C] is leaving the city, and I intend to borrow his studio, to work with my friend [person B], and spend quality time like in the old days.

I unlock an apartment on the floor of an old decrepit building in an urban downtown. [person C], in a friendly way, helps me touring all his workshop supplies: stained clothing, dirty towels, wipers to clean, brushes, buckets, cans and so on.

My perspective on the practice of painting has changed greatly since back then, when we shared studios in Chile. That was more than 30 years ago, and honestly I don't think I will need any of that.

Through politeness, in response to his generous gesture of lending his studio, I hold my tongue and follow his conversation. A new perception comes to change my mind: I will not use those rags, and I don't even need his studio.

Heading towards the exit and letting him continue talking, deep inside me, a philosophical conflict brews, as if I don’t know what I want.

I ask myself, what am I doing here? We leave the atelier and the building. [person C] and I go out to find a bar and say goodbye. In the street at night we walk down through a dark underground tunnel, which leads us to some sort of pedestrian avenue.

In the absence of light, it feels like we are near the ocean. We pass in front of restaurants and finally sit in a classic Chilean " fuente de soda". I order a beer, [person C] asks for a spirit, and soon after he leaves. I ask for the bill at once, to pay for my beer and his drink with some coins that he left on the table. I have to put

in the difference to cover his mezcal, and I do it, no problem.

Suddenly my attention shifts again to a different concern. I feel a loose tooth. I can move it in my mouth with my tongue, and it is exactly the one that [person D] fixed.

Fuck! Oh god! Indeed, doctors are just what I should avoid in the States. I feel miserable; the last thing I wanted to happen is to lose a tooth.

As I fall in despair, I wonder, “Do I have to resign myself? What can I do? How do I remedy it?” I gently take it out of my mouth with my fingers to discover a strange fact: my tooth is a cell, a pod with veins, similar to the underlying wall inside a fruit. It's terrible!

Only the root is left, I need a better one and will tell the doctor to make a brand new, shorter tooth.

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