It was 11:35 PM when I went out the door of Sacred Heart Apartments.
One of the latest times ever. And, on a Wednesday night.
The previous Wednesday night, I had made 23 bucks, I recalled, plus sold one hit off a joint for 20 dollars to a lady.
Then I was woken up the next morning by Ed (of Rose and Ed) who bought my extra bike off me for 30 bucks, so I had gone from broke to 73 dollars in the course of 12 hours.
"I guess I'll be doing the midnight 'til two shift," I said to the security lady at the front desk.
I had no cash at all on me at all, just like the previous Wednesday..
I had no weed and had chosen not to knock on Bobby's door and basically beg him for some. If I tell him I am on my way out to play (and probably have all my gear on my back to "prove" it) and that I have no weed but would really relish a toke or two while I tune up, he will usually give me what, to him, is a tiny bud, but which I can smoke off of for a couple days.
Something told me not to push that luck.
I had just fed Harold the cat the only food I had for him, the dry stuff; and had had to tell him: "That's all there is" repeatedly as an answer to his meows," as he stood by the spot where the wet food usually is.
I had been at the Uxi Duxi, a further reenactment of the previous Wednesday, with the difference being I had one dollar and eight pennies to go with the $2.62 on my green Amex card.
"There will be coincidences," states Eckhart Tolle in his "A New Earth" book that I'm about a third of the way through.
A coincidence was indeed having the identical amount of $2.62 on my card after a week of earning and spending.
This is the 30 cents short of a shot of kratom which was the big issue of the prior Wednesday.
But I had "come up" one dollar and eight cents over the course of the week, it felt like.
I set out thinking that, it would be nice to make at least 3 bucks to have for the following day.
It was with this, and Harold the cat, in mind as well as making enough for a 3 dollar shot of kratom the next day, that I pedaled towards the Lilly Pad.
I can cut 8 full minutes off my journey if I take the bike trail (where I was shot in the face with a paint ball about a year ago now) instead of Canal Street.
I did a variation of this and plucked my first note about 8 minutes before midnight.
Before I tuned up, I looked down and found, in the crack of the sidewalk, one of my roaches of weed from Sunday night, two nights prior.
It was almost an inch long, making for some kind of miracle that it hadn't been swept up by the crews who had come through twice at 4 in the morning, since I had dropped it there.
I could actually recall Sunday night, packing up and thinking that I still had a decent sized roach somewhere, but couldn't find it.
So, the ritual of smoking bud while I tuned up remained intact.
Money steadily flowed into my basket, with one particular group of four being responsible for about 12 of the 26 dollars that I would make before seeing that it was 1:48 AM and I had just about covered the midnight 'til two shift that I had set out to accomplish.
The ultimate impetus to pack up came after an older black man, whom I have seen before, and who is some kind of hustler, sat on the stoop, ostensibly wanting to listen to me, or maybe just seeking company.
He offered me a cigarette, which I smoked a bit of, after hedging against the possibility that he was going to try to skeeze money off me, by saying: "Yeah, I haven't even made enough for a pack," as I accepted it from him. I had broken the basket down to about 4 dollars by that point.
It was a challenge to play "for him," and, in retrospect I think this was the biggest issue and the "spiritual exercise" that I had in front of me for the entire day.
It hadn't been the 30 cents short of a shot of kratom of the previous week which had placed a load on my mind that required the ironically hard work of letting it go, but this was not to be taken lightly.
I suddenly felt inadequate, as I tried to come up with a strategy through which I could entertain the shaven headed older black guy (being driven by an ego-based sense of pride and my wanting him to at least go around saying: "That guy can play!" to whom it may concern) while, at the same time, keep him from hanging around.
Should I play something that I thought would bore him into leaving? This would have the effect of boring anyone else out that night into leaving.
I feel badly that I wasn't able to embrace his being there and play no differently than I would, had be been a nice white couple from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
My mind wandered and I wound up aborting the first couple songs I attempted, saying: "My mind's a million miles away," to the guy after stopping, hoping he would respond by saying: "I guess I'm distracting you," and leave.
It's just that he evinced no signs of actually enjoying my playing that I could see; no singing along to any part of "My Girl," by Marvin Gaye(?), no giggling over any of the verses to "Crazy About A Crazy Girl," one of my originals intended to be kind of funny etc.
I figured that he knew that I didn't like people sitting there, not tipping but dissuading others from sitting there and doing so. We had most likely been over that, at least once.
There are people who take offense to being asked to leave anywhere in general. That may be due to their having issues related to "abandonment," (or, I guess that would be reverse-abandonment in this case when I wanted him to abandon me) or perhaps low self-esteem.
The guy who tried to physically take my guitar from me after I had asked him if he could not sit there, in as nice a way as I could muster, but in a way that sounded rude even to me the way it came out, is a good example.
It was almost as if this guy was enjoying the anticipation of me asking him to move, perhaps to see the amount of tact I would be able to do it with.
After a couple of pretty young ladies had walked past, and he had said something complimentary to them, and then had remarked to me, or maybe just out loud to nobody, something like: "They got it going on," I added, "Yeah, and they didn't seem to want to stop."
This was a subtle hint.
It felt like a spiritual exercise, of the kind that Ekhart Tolle talks about -the situation I found myself in.
I decided to look past him and play to the window on the third floor of the house across from me, where the imaginary young lady reclines on her bed, her head propped up on a pillow so she can hear my sound coming through the cracked open panes -the one who loves the music of The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, would die for Elvis Costello and who, most of all, enjoys a musician playing and singing whatever is popping into his head at that moment.
The amount of tourists there had dwindled down as 2 AM approached. After another couple groups had gone by without stopping, I started to pack up, focusing upon being level headed and having no hard feelings towards the guy on the stoop.
As I shouldered my pack, ready to walk off, he got up and walked away himself, saying something like: "I was just fixin' to move," which tipped me off that he had known exactly what he was doing.
He might have been testing me in a way.
I have complained about some of the hustlers doing the same thing as myself at some level.
One rolly-polly black lady, who motors around in an electric cart that is equipped with a sound system and flashy lights, comes to mind.
I had gotten pissed off once, after she had motored past me on the sidewalk with her face contorted into a "Get out of my way you piece of shit" look after she had given me a quick once-over.
Then appeared a couple of well dressed white tourists from around a corner.
She transformed immediately. With a big smile on her face and with her fingers snapping she began to dance, as well as someone seated in a cart can, to her music, while engaging them with some kind of patter "Welcome to my city, nice tourists, where we sing and dance and snap our fingers all the live-long day! And where tips are appreciated!"
I resented her. I wanted to get in her face and ask: "Where's MY song and dance?!?"
And, yet, here I was hoping the street character hustler guy would move away so I could sing and dance and snap my harmonica for some nicely dressed tourists.
It took an Eckhart Tolle book and a lot of meditation for the truth to become plain to me.
So, yeah, the guy might have been trying to defrock, me in that regard.
It raised a very important issue; one that the busker has to deal with, at some point. An issue surrounding being able to see through the veil of physical form to the divinity in all living creatures.
I should have engaged him in conversation and shown him the utmost respect; maybe next time...tonight?
There was a time when a group of three black teens stopped, with one of them asking me: "I can get a couple dollars?" about the 4 dollars that was in my basket.
I subdued my reaction to something like: "Man, that's all I've made all night, a couple dollars," rather than a sarcastic: "Yeah, I'm sitting here handing out money, that's what I came out here to do!"
The kid then pulled out a wad of money and said: "I was going to give you 10 bucks if you said I could have a couple!"
And, I think he was sincere. He would have given me the 10 bucks had I said: "Well, I've only made a couple bucks so far, but, if you really need it..."
You don't want to present yourself as a naive, kind-hearted push-over, but...
Well, back to "A New Earth," for me, I guess.
It's 9:45 PM on this Thursday night. the rain has stopped.
I have enough left of the 26 bucks to get a bit of weed.
I had a box of Life cereal and then some baked fish a few hours later last night, fed Harold a couple cans of food, had a cigar to smoke, a Bang energy drink which I used as a mixer for the double shot of kratom that I'm just finishing now, as I prepare to go out to make my daily bread for one more day...
One of the latest times ever. And, on a Wednesday night.
Then I was woken up the next morning by Ed (of Rose and Ed) who bought my extra bike off me for 30 bucks, so I had gone from broke to 73 dollars in the course of 12 hours.
"I guess I'll be doing the midnight 'til two shift," I said to the security lady at the front desk.
I had no cash at all on me at all, just like the previous Wednesday..
I had no weed and had chosen not to knock on Bobby's door and basically beg him for some. If I tell him I am on my way out to play (and probably have all my gear on my back to "prove" it) and that I have no weed but would really relish a toke or two while I tune up, he will usually give me what, to him, is a tiny bud, but which I can smoke off of for a couple days.
Something told me not to push that luck.
I had just fed Harold the cat the only food I had for him, the dry stuff; and had had to tell him: "That's all there is" repeatedly as an answer to his meows," as he stood by the spot where the wet food usually is.
I had been at the Uxi Duxi, a further reenactment of the previous Wednesday, with the difference being I had one dollar and eight pennies to go with the $2.62 on my green Amex card.
"There will be coincidences," states Eckhart Tolle in his "A New Earth" book that I'm about a third of the way through.
A coincidence was indeed having the identical amount of $2.62 on my card after a week of earning and spending.
This is the 30 cents short of a shot of kratom which was the big issue of the prior Wednesday.
But I had "come up" one dollar and eight cents over the course of the week, it felt like.
I set out thinking that, it would be nice to make at least 3 bucks to have for the following day.
It was with this, and Harold the cat, in mind as well as making enough for a 3 dollar shot of kratom the next day, that I pedaled towards the Lilly Pad.
I can cut 8 full minutes off my journey if I take the bike trail (where I was shot in the face with a paint ball about a year ago now) instead of Canal Street.
I did a variation of this and plucked my first note about 8 minutes before midnight.
Before I tuned up, I looked down and found, in the crack of the sidewalk, one of my roaches of weed from Sunday night, two nights prior.
It was almost an inch long, making for some kind of miracle that it hadn't been swept up by the crews who had come through twice at 4 in the morning, since I had dropped it there.
I could actually recall Sunday night, packing up and thinking that I still had a decent sized roach somewhere, but couldn't find it.
So, the ritual of smoking bud while I tuned up remained intact.
Money steadily flowed into my basket, with one particular group of four being responsible for about 12 of the 26 dollars that I would make before seeing that it was 1:48 AM and I had just about covered the midnight 'til two shift that I had set out to accomplish.
The ultimate impetus to pack up came after an older black man, whom I have seen before, and who is some kind of hustler, sat on the stoop, ostensibly wanting to listen to me, or maybe just seeking company.
He offered me a cigarette, which I smoked a bit of, after hedging against the possibility that he was going to try to skeeze money off me, by saying: "Yeah, I haven't even made enough for a pack," as I accepted it from him. I had broken the basket down to about 4 dollars by that point.
It was a challenge to play "for him," and, in retrospect I think this was the biggest issue and the "spiritual exercise" that I had in front of me for the entire day.
It hadn't been the 30 cents short of a shot of kratom of the previous week which had placed a load on my mind that required the ironically hard work of letting it go, but this was not to be taken lightly.
I suddenly felt inadequate, as I tried to come up with a strategy through which I could entertain the shaven headed older black guy (being driven by an ego-based sense of pride and my wanting him to at least go around saying: "That guy can play!" to whom it may concern) while, at the same time, keep him from hanging around.
Should I play something that I thought would bore him into leaving? This would have the effect of boring anyone else out that night into leaving.
I feel badly that I wasn't able to embrace his being there and play no differently than I would, had be been a nice white couple from Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
My mind wandered and I wound up aborting the first couple songs I attempted, saying: "My mind's a million miles away," to the guy after stopping, hoping he would respond by saying: "I guess I'm distracting you," and leave.
It's just that he evinced no signs of actually enjoying my playing that I could see; no singing along to any part of "My Girl," by Marvin Gaye(?), no giggling over any of the verses to "Crazy About A Crazy Girl," one of my originals intended to be kind of funny etc.
I figured that he knew that I didn't like people sitting there, not tipping but dissuading others from sitting there and doing so. We had most likely been over that, at least once.
There are people who take offense to being asked to leave anywhere in general. That may be due to their having issues related to "abandonment," (or, I guess that would be reverse-abandonment in this case when I wanted him to abandon me) or perhaps low self-esteem.
The guy who tried to physically take my guitar from me after I had asked him if he could not sit there, in as nice a way as I could muster, but in a way that sounded rude even to me the way it came out, is a good example.
It was almost as if this guy was enjoying the anticipation of me asking him to move, perhaps to see the amount of tact I would be able to do it with.
After a couple of pretty young ladies had walked past, and he had said something complimentary to them, and then had remarked to me, or maybe just out loud to nobody, something like: "They got it going on," I added, "Yeah, and they didn't seem to want to stop."
This was a subtle hint.
It felt like a spiritual exercise, of the kind that Ekhart Tolle talks about -the situation I found myself in.
I decided to look past him and play to the window on the third floor of the house across from me, where the imaginary young lady reclines on her bed, her head propped up on a pillow so she can hear my sound coming through the cracked open panes -the one who loves the music of The Beatles, The Grateful Dead, would die for Elvis Costello and who, most of all, enjoys a musician playing and singing whatever is popping into his head at that moment.
The amount of tourists there had dwindled down as 2 AM approached. After another couple groups had gone by without stopping, I started to pack up, focusing upon being level headed and having no hard feelings towards the guy on the stoop.
As I shouldered my pack, ready to walk off, he got up and walked away himself, saying something like: "I was just fixin' to move," which tipped me off that he had known exactly what he was doing.
He might have been testing me in a way.
I have complained about some of the hustlers doing the same thing as myself at some level.
One rolly-polly black lady, who motors around in an electric cart that is equipped with a sound system and flashy lights, comes to mind.
I had gotten pissed off once, after she had motored past me on the sidewalk with her face contorted into a "Get out of my way you piece of shit" look after she had given me a quick once-over.
Then appeared a couple of well dressed white tourists from around a corner.
She transformed immediately. With a big smile on her face and with her fingers snapping she began to dance, as well as someone seated in a cart can, to her music, while engaging them with some kind of patter "Welcome to my city, nice tourists, where we sing and dance and snap our fingers all the live-long day! And where tips are appreciated!"
I resented her. I wanted to get in her face and ask: "Where's MY song and dance?!?"
And, yet, here I was hoping the street character hustler guy would move away so I could sing and dance and snap my harmonica for some nicely dressed tourists.
It took an Eckhart Tolle book and a lot of meditation for the truth to become plain to me.
So, yeah, the guy might have been trying to defrock, me in that regard.
It raised a very important issue; one that the busker has to deal with, at some point. An issue surrounding being able to see through the veil of physical form to the divinity in all living creatures.
I should have engaged him in conversation and shown him the utmost respect; maybe next time...tonight?
There was a time when a group of three black teens stopped, with one of them asking me: "I can get a couple dollars?" about the 4 dollars that was in my basket.
I subdued my reaction to something like: "Man, that's all I've made all night, a couple dollars," rather than a sarcastic: "Yeah, I'm sitting here handing out money, that's what I came out here to do!"
The kid then pulled out a wad of money and said: "I was going to give you 10 bucks if you said I could have a couple!"
And, I think he was sincere. He would have given me the 10 bucks had I said: "Well, I've only made a couple bucks so far, but, if you really need it..."
You don't want to present yourself as a naive, kind-hearted push-over, but...
Well, back to "A New Earth," for me, I guess.
It's 9:45 PM on this Thursday night. the rain has stopped.
I have enough left of the 26 bucks to get a bit of weed.
I had a box of Life cereal and then some baked fish a few hours later last night, fed Harold a couple cans of food, had a cigar to smoke, a Bang energy drink which I used as a mixer for the double shot of kratom that I'm just finishing now, as I prepare to go out to make my daily bread for one more day...
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