I Blog Therefore I Am

After a torturous nights sleep when I was visited by nightmares and woke up sweating at one point, I am at Serdas Coffee, working on my second cup of joe, and trying to make sense of it all.

I spent 8 of the 12 dollars that I had left over from Saturday on Sunday (yesterday) and that translates to 4 on cigarettes and 4 on beer.

I watched The Patriots game at McDonalds after one beer, grabbed another and then hid it nearby Heroes Pub where I stood in front on the sidewalk and watched the second game; leaving to take a few gulps during commercials; until such a time that a guy who acted like he owned the place came up to me and said "You're gonna have to move it along; that (the TV) is for my guests."

The outcome of the game was pretty much determined, so I moved it along, grabbing the third and final beer and then retreating to the railroad sleeping spot, where I built a fire and cooked some cod fish and some ground beef with spinach.

I ate and then went to sleep with $5.15 in my pocket and an almost full pack of cigarettes.

The fitful nights sleep meant that I had to catch up in the morning after I finally fell into a dreamless state.

Nightmare On Water Street

In one dream, I was at the residence of a young lady, who could have been a hybrid of Amanda and someone else.

Her "apartment" had a glass topped coffee table with a bunch of magazines under it; which kind of resembled a reception area at a doctors office.

I was with someone else whose identity was vague.

The young lady, who was wearing striped leggings, left the room and myself and my companion became curious and started pulling magazines out from under the table.

They were all pornographic, but of a nature or a fetish that did nothing to interest me; like girls in leggings holding whips and chains or something...

The girl could be heard returning, and I scrambled to reassemble the magazines (which were now notepad computers with the images on them) and place them back under the coffee table the way they had been; but in the dream; they had become unmanageable; they wouldn't stack right and there were too many of them.

The girl returned; but didn't say anything about us (even though my companion had disappeared by now) having poked our noses in her stuff. She rather produced a remote, aimed it at a wall of large screen TVs which came on, and then left the room again.

I walked over and stood in front of the large screen TVs which were showing pornography, but the "actors" were all made out of Play Dough, like Mr. Bill of Saturday night live fame, and were all in jerky animation, likewise.

I then looked to my right and noticed that the other wall, which I thought was a mirror, was really a two-way mirror.

Leaning closer to it and cupping my hands in front of it to block out the glare, I could discern a holding cell where a few guys, wearing the striped uniforms of prisoners, were milling about.

Then a door opened and a Federal agent (I could tell by looking at him) came out and placed me under arrest.

I told him that it wasn't my apartment and those weren't my movies and that I wasn't even into Play Dough animated porn.

"You pre-recorded them," said the agent, who now had me hand-cuffed and was walking me somewhere vague.

I started thinking about the letters that I was going to have to write, explaining to friends and family the ridiculous things that had happened, and could they send some money to the jail, please.

Then, the absurdity and implausibility unreality of it all started to sink in, and I considered (in the dream) that it might be a dream.

I struggled (in the dream) to open my eyes as wide as I could.

And, sure enough I woke up on a pieced of cardboard under a holly bush by the railroad tracks in a sweat, but pretty relieved.

The Secret Meaning  Of Dreams

The interpretation can probably be boiled down to: Don't eat a bunch of ground beef and then go right to sleep, but...

I think the agent represented the guy at Heroes Pub telling me that I couldn't watch football (he looked like Howie Long, the sports analyst).

The girl was kind of like Amanda, whom I had lost interest in after seeing her the next day in the light thereof (her becoming like the clay figures), and my mom had e-mailed me recently, saying that a money order which she had sent to the Baton Rouge Parish Prison, which was returned to her, she would re-send, now that she knows that I can pick up mail in New Orleans at the Rebuild Center, and that factors in somehow; perhaps it has to do with the fact that, after I have the money, I would be able to go into Heroes and watch the TV, without having the police called on me...

I woke up after Howard had already placed the sports page down by my feet (at approximately 7:40 a.m.) and gulped down some Mountain Hollar while I read it, bagged up all my trash and removed any evidence that there had ever been a fire pit there, and then arrived at the Big Clock Spot at 9:40 a.m. to begin playing Monday, Monday, by The Mamas And The Papas, which netted me 3 dollars in about 45 minutes, before a string broke and I fixed it, but decided to come here and blog, rather than continue.

Big Clock Strikes Twelve

Right now, I am noticing, from this vantage point, a whole lot of people walking past the big clock on their lunch breaks, I assume. It is 12:08 p.m.

This makes me think that I could busk during this hour and maybe do better than 3  dollars on a weekday.

The morning people are generous if one takes into consideration the proportion of tips vs. people walking past. If you rule out the street people, half the people who walk past tend to throw me a dollar.

The problem is that they park inside garages and get to their jobs using some other route than past the big clock.

Coming To Serdas "Brilliant"

But, at lunchtime, they do walk past it, on their way to the eateries on Dauphin Street. I'm glad that I decided to blog at Serdas Coffee today..

One of the barristers just came in to work.

He stopped and told me: "By the way, your stand up comedy was brilliant the other night. It was very genuine."

So, that is how it stands now.

I need to put all my laundry in a huge "construction grade" plastic bag, take it to Coopers Park, pour in my dish washing liquid, fill the bag halfway with water, let it soak, then knead it like dough, repeat the process and then wring it out and haul it back to the holly bush and then hang it on the inside branches, so that it won't be visible from afar; and then let the 70 degree air do its thing.

If I want to be a clean homeless guy, I'm going to have to put in the effort.

If I decide to do another stand up comedy routine at Serdas on Wednesday night, I don't want to stink.