A half assed little Christmas;
May you stave off depression
The whole Christmas season had whirred by like a movie edited by some director who likes to juxtaposition things out of chronology, and who uses symbolism the meaning of which is left to the imagination of the viewer, etc...
Having had the flu and stayed in on Friday night had put me in a financial bind. I had revised any plans such as the one to get Howard an ounce of kratom for Christmas, along with some literature about mitagyna specioso leaf.
The next day, after having woken up and taken a hot shower, since the clothes that I had slept in were clammy with my sweat, redolent with the a sweet smell that made me wonder if I was supposed to take them out into the parking lot and burn them, along with my bedding; I had gone to the Uxi Duxi.
It was pretty early in the day.
As it wore on, I began to feel the flu-like symptoms coming back.
After I had finally folded up my laptop and was walking back to the apartment with evening falling, I really didn't want to go out and busk. It would have taken the greatest effort to push myself out there just to try to make some money than had been required of myself in a long time.
There was the feeling that I could "catch pneumonia," by going out and playing under such conditions.
My winter jacket wasn't keeping me warm; and I felt frail when I walked into the lobby at Sacred Heart Apartments and spotted the now familiar tan box which was a parcel from the Lidgleys of London.
It had taken me by surprise.
I almost assuredly didn't have to go out and play while sick, I thought, thinking of some of the items that they typically put in the parcels, which have been an annual gift from them at Christmas time, since our having met in Saint Augustine, Florida.
I took the parcel back to the apartment, and put it on my coffee table. Then, I went into the kitchen and started to make some coffee. ...Wait a minute, maybe they had put some coffee in the package; it would assuredly be better than the dollar store instant I was heating up....
I decided to make the instant coffee because I actually wanted to drink some before tearing the wrapping off the package.
There was a Starbucks gift card in it, so I was close.
There was a nice pair of jeans in my size, along with a couple of nice cotton shirts which were in the same colors that I use when I make cartoons of the Lilly Pad; the purple-green shades in subdued hues.
Having clothes that fit is a status symbol which at least makes you look like you didn't go to the "clothing basket for the homeless" type place and take whatever was available from them, which odds are, wouldn't exactly fit you.
The Starbucks card will give me a chance to change venues, as far as my wireless activities are concerned. This blog might be written, over the next few weeks, by myself, as I sit in the Starbucks on Canal and St. Charles sipping "red eyes" and being subconsciously influenced by that particular atmosphere; rather than sitting at the Uxi Duxi, which has been my go to blogging spot since probably around June, or whenever the last gift card that the Lidgleys had given me had run out.
The computer room at Sacred Heart Apartments is the last resort for blogging, as there is a palpable negativity around there that is enough to be a distraction.
The box had a about a half pound of a very good chocolate, a couple packs of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and three packs of Martin guitar strings.
I stayed in that night, falling asleep at some point right where I sat.
Sunday morning, which was Christmas eve, I woke up to find that the radio that I had left on NPR the night before was now reverberating with the sounds of a Catholic mass being broadcast from somewhere in England.
I very British sounding boy was telling the story of Adam and Eve having hidden from God, out of shame over their being naked, and Adam having blamed Eve, who had turned around and blamed a snake, and the snake having been cursed at that moment.
It is such a symbolic story; or not, depending upon who you talk to.
I used to be a ravenously spiritually hungry person, desperately searching for truth and purpose, especially when I was dropping acid in my mid 20's.
The choir in that church that sang in between stories of snakes and of angels appearing and speaking, was undoubtedly comprised of world class, most likely professional singers.
There was such a beauty to the music that I shed a tear, mostly wishing that everyone in the world could just believe; go to church and sing like that; and to abandon their hatred, keeping their minds staid upon God.
I called my mom and wound up leaving a message on her phone, with the sounds of the mass in the background.
Over The River And Through The Woods
Christmas morning, I was up around 9 AM, and prepared to go to Howard's house.
I had decided I would bring my guitar, even though it would mean carrying it for about a mile through temperatures just a bit above freezing.
It was just a weird occasion.
It was hard not to see the actions of a lot of people I encountered as being just that one extra degree of reprehensible, given that it was Christmas. The people rushing towards the door of the bus after it stopped, bumping and elbowing in competition for the limited seating, like they always did, were now doing it on Christmas morning.
I got to Howards house and walked in on a Christmas morning scene already in full swing. Berta ushered me in as the 5 little lapdogs that they have barked frenetically.
This might have been the time that, noticing the guitar on my back, she might have said: "Oh, are you going to play us some Christmas musc?" whereupon I could have taken it out and done a few minutes of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas," or something, on guitar and harmonica. This might have been a good icebreaker, I thought. As it happened, though, I could have just left the thing at home. It turned out to be a very food focused event, with almost all of the conversation being about it.
I presented Howard with the 2 grapefruits from out of the huge pockets of my winter jacket that I had produced as my gift to him.
There was food just about anywhere I looked. It was hard to distinguish between food that had been laid out as part of the holiday spread, and what had already been there on the counters and shelves.
Another couple showed up before Berta was able to tell me anything like: "There's the plates and plastic forks, help yourself," so I didn't want to just grab a plate and start loading it up, unbidden, so there was that kind of awkward period when I was kind of standing around, waiting for the newly arrived couple to have been offered food, when I dug in along with them.
Howard had gone back to his room.
Once I got back there, he gave me the news that the bike that they had mentioned getting me for Christmas had not materialized. Berta had had some kind of financial setback.
He said that he had expected me the previous week when the Patriots had played the Steelers.
I felt bad once again for not having called after I had decided not to make the trip there. I blamed it on the flu, even though I think that was still a day or two before I had come down with it.
It was over-all a pretty depressing occasion.
There really wasn't much to do outside of eating and eating.
"Here, try the fruit salad," said Berta to me at one point.
I tried the fruit salad.
She should have said: "Here, try the Jim Beam salad, fruit flavored," as I realized, after I had a mouthful of it, and as it almost burned my mouth, that the period of sobriety, that was going to reach 2 years the next week, was technically going to end as soon as I swallowed.
Later on, I was gotten again, after taking a bite of a piece of the rum cake, chocolate flavored. It was probably about 20 proof.
There is a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme standing on the floor by the fake fireplace in Howard's room. I have seen it standing there each time I have visited since the time he had offered it to me as I was leaving a few weeks earlier.
I opened my mouth to take him up on the offer as I was leaving this time. I really thought that I was going to sip it down as I walked the mile to the bus stop, and that it was going to make me feel good; was guaranteed to do so as a matter of fact, given its high sugar content, it's rich cream, and the alcohol that I hadn't had in going on 2 years, or 2 hours, depending upon how you'd score it.
Can I one day tell people: "I'm 5 years sober, except for a big spoonful of Jim Beam that had some fruit floating around in it..."? should I continue to not drink?
I didn't ask Howard for the Bailey's, but just left at a certain time -when one football game had ended, with the next one slated to come on not being a very good game- and walked half dejectedly back to the bus stop; carrying the guitar that I was never asked to play. Not riding the bike that I didn't get.
May you stave off depression
The whole Christmas season had whirred by like a movie edited by some director who likes to juxtaposition things out of chronology, and who uses symbolism the meaning of which is left to the imagination of the viewer, etc...
Having had the flu and stayed in on Friday night had put me in a financial bind. I had revised any plans such as the one to get Howard an ounce of kratom for Christmas, along with some literature about mitagyna specioso leaf.
The next day, after having woken up and taken a hot shower, since the clothes that I had slept in were clammy with my sweat, redolent with the a sweet smell that made me wonder if I was supposed to take them out into the parking lot and burn them, along with my bedding; I had gone to the Uxi Duxi.
It was pretty early in the day.
As it wore on, I began to feel the flu-like symptoms coming back.
After I had finally folded up my laptop and was walking back to the apartment with evening falling, I really didn't want to go out and busk. It would have taken the greatest effort to push myself out there just to try to make some money than had been required of myself in a long time.
There was the feeling that I could "catch pneumonia," by going out and playing under such conditions.
My winter jacket wasn't keeping me warm; and I felt frail when I walked into the lobby at Sacred Heart Apartments and spotted the now familiar tan box which was a parcel from the Lidgleys of London.
It had taken me by surprise.
I almost assuredly didn't have to go out and play while sick, I thought, thinking of some of the items that they typically put in the parcels, which have been an annual gift from them at Christmas time, since our having met in Saint Augustine, Florida.
I took the parcel back to the apartment, and put it on my coffee table. Then, I went into the kitchen and started to make some coffee. ...Wait a minute, maybe they had put some coffee in the package; it would assuredly be better than the dollar store instant I was heating up....
I decided to make the instant coffee because I actually wanted to drink some before tearing the wrapping off the package.
There was a Starbucks gift card in it, so I was close.
There was a nice pair of jeans in my size, along with a couple of nice cotton shirts which were in the same colors that I use when I make cartoons of the Lilly Pad; the purple-green shades in subdued hues.
Having clothes that fit is a status symbol which at least makes you look like you didn't go to the "clothing basket for the homeless" type place and take whatever was available from them, which odds are, wouldn't exactly fit you.
The Starbucks card will give me a chance to change venues, as far as my wireless activities are concerned. This blog might be written, over the next few weeks, by myself, as I sit in the Starbucks on Canal and St. Charles sipping "red eyes" and being subconsciously influenced by that particular atmosphere; rather than sitting at the Uxi Duxi, which has been my go to blogging spot since probably around June, or whenever the last gift card that the Lidgleys had given me had run out.
The computer room at Sacred Heart Apartments is the last resort for blogging, as there is a palpable negativity around there that is enough to be a distraction.
The box had a about a half pound of a very good chocolate, a couple packs of Benson and Hedges cigarettes and three packs of Martin guitar strings.
I stayed in that night, falling asleep at some point right where I sat.
Sunday morning, which was Christmas eve, I woke up to find that the radio that I had left on NPR the night before was now reverberating with the sounds of a Catholic mass being broadcast from somewhere in England.
I very British sounding boy was telling the story of Adam and Eve having hidden from God, out of shame over their being naked, and Adam having blamed Eve, who had turned around and blamed a snake, and the snake having been cursed at that moment.
It is such a symbolic story; or not, depending upon who you talk to.
I used to be a ravenously spiritually hungry person, desperately searching for truth and purpose, especially when I was dropping acid in my mid 20's.
The choir in that church that sang in between stories of snakes and of angels appearing and speaking, was undoubtedly comprised of world class, most likely professional singers.
There was such a beauty to the music that I shed a tear, mostly wishing that everyone in the world could just believe; go to church and sing like that; and to abandon their hatred, keeping their minds staid upon God.
I called my mom and wound up leaving a message on her phone, with the sounds of the mass in the background.
Over The River And Through The Woods
Christmas morning, I was up around 9 AM, and prepared to go to Howard's house.
I had decided I would bring my guitar, even though it would mean carrying it for about a mile through temperatures just a bit above freezing.
It was just a weird occasion.
It was hard not to see the actions of a lot of people I encountered as being just that one extra degree of reprehensible, given that it was Christmas. The people rushing towards the door of the bus after it stopped, bumping and elbowing in competition for the limited seating, like they always did, were now doing it on Christmas morning.
I got to Howards house and walked in on a Christmas morning scene already in full swing. Berta ushered me in as the 5 little lapdogs that they have barked frenetically.
This might have been the time that, noticing the guitar on my back, she might have said: "Oh, are you going to play us some Christmas musc?" whereupon I could have taken it out and done a few minutes of "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas," or something, on guitar and harmonica. This might have been a good icebreaker, I thought. As it happened, though, I could have just left the thing at home. It turned out to be a very food focused event, with almost all of the conversation being about it.
I presented Howard with the 2 grapefruits from out of the huge pockets of my winter jacket that I had produced as my gift to him.
There was food just about anywhere I looked. It was hard to distinguish between food that had been laid out as part of the holiday spread, and what had already been there on the counters and shelves.
Another couple showed up before Berta was able to tell me anything like: "There's the plates and plastic forks, help yourself," so I didn't want to just grab a plate and start loading it up, unbidden, so there was that kind of awkward period when I was kind of standing around, waiting for the newly arrived couple to have been offered food, when I dug in along with them.
Howard had gone back to his room.
Once I got back there, he gave me the news that the bike that they had mentioned getting me for Christmas had not materialized. Berta had had some kind of financial setback.
He said that he had expected me the previous week when the Patriots had played the Steelers.
I felt bad once again for not having called after I had decided not to make the trip there. I blamed it on the flu, even though I think that was still a day or two before I had come down with it.
It was over-all a pretty depressing occasion.
There really wasn't much to do outside of eating and eating.
"Here, try the fruit salad," said Berta to me at one point.
I tried the fruit salad.
She should have said: "Here, try the Jim Beam salad, fruit flavored," as I realized, after I had a mouthful of it, and as it almost burned my mouth, that the period of sobriety, that was going to reach 2 years the next week, was technically going to end as soon as I swallowed.
Later on, I was gotten again, after taking a bite of a piece of the rum cake, chocolate flavored. It was probably about 20 proof.
There is a bottle of Bailey's Irish Creme standing on the floor by the fake fireplace in Howard's room. I have seen it standing there each time I have visited since the time he had offered it to me as I was leaving a few weeks earlier.
I opened my mouth to take him up on the offer as I was leaving this time. I really thought that I was going to sip it down as I walked the mile to the bus stop, and that it was going to make me feel good; was guaranteed to do so as a matter of fact, given its high sugar content, it's rich cream, and the alcohol that I hadn't had in going on 2 years, or 2 hours, depending upon how you'd score it.
Can I one day tell people: "I'm 5 years sober, except for a big spoonful of Jim Beam that had some fruit floating around in it..."? should I continue to not drink?
I didn't ask Howard for the Bailey's, but just left at a certain time -when one football game had ended, with the next one slated to come on not being a very good game- and walked half dejectedly back to the bus stop; carrying the guitar that I was never asked to play. Not riding the bike that I didn't get.
Jim Beam salad LOL!!!!!
ReplyDeleteIt sucks that your Xmas was a bummer. Mine would have been too, except I decided to start a new tradition and go to a local Chinese place. It was really good. I was so stuffed with shrimp that nothing could perturb me, and I wandered around all the hokey "Christmas In The Park" thing along with 10,000 other people, 15,000 of them being little kids. It was pretty decent.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteI move the comment over to Alex In California's blog, where it disappeared into the cyber ether; it was just that the Chinese restaurants were packed here on Christmas day; maybe a new tradition for a lot of people...
ReplyDeleteOr, perhaps, out of all the non-Jesus fearing races; the Chinese are the least obnoxious; no radical Buddhists blowing up shit...yet...