I've Got A Crush On You

She has been in at least a couple of my dreams since her passing. I think she is trying to communicate to me from the after-world. Maybe it's something important. She is in my head now. I don't do nor say anything that wouldn't meet with the approval of her majesty. I won't have any qualms about serving as the king of the after-world, if that's indeed what is being portended here. No qualms at all...

I really should have written down the dreams I had, in which she played a central role. They may be of interest to historians.
In the meantime, I've been putting the doldrums of September busking to the pursuit of kicking addictions. It's just that, no sooner do I accept the fact that I have no alcohol, tobacco or weed at any given time and console myself with the myriad blessings that have been bestowed upon me, then these substances materialize out of the ether.

Above: With Margaret (Hello, Margaret)

I just got back from the Winn Dixie, where, not only did they still have a bag of stuff that I forgot there 3 days ago, and in fact had the thing propped up on a window sill, displayed the way hubcaps are stood up on the side of the road, not far from the potholes that probably dislodged them, but, there was a nicotine vaporizer laying in the parking lot in a spot inconsistent with where someone might chuck one that has just run out -this was one that had fallen out of a purse that someone was retrieving car keys from, who didn't hear it hit the pavement over the din of shopping cart wheels on pavement. 

 

The bag that I had left had a can of food for Harold in it, so I didn't have to bother with trying to find someone to buy an item for off my food stamps, in exchange for the cash for one. 

 

On the other fronts, I have been besieged with phone calls from Jr, who has advertised the fact that he had alcohol and weed, that he offered in exchange of me hanging out and jamming with him. Last night I took him up on the offer and found that it served as a pretty good practice session for me. The fact that Jr is at a somewhat basic level of mastery of the guitar gives me a chance to kind of go back to elementary school and work on my own fundamentals.

I may have been premature in abandoning the "Chuck Berry" bag of musical tricks, back when I was 15 years old and eager to "advance" to more "complex" chords and the theory behind them. I guess I thought that there wasn't much to be learned from a black man with no degree from the Berkeley College of Music. I now know that there is a lot to be said about being able to tastefully play the "3 chord Sally"'s that Jr is constantly wanting to jam over. (I've always hated the use of the name Sally in such contexts. Swap-meet Sally, Mustang Sally and the Sally that you sneak through the alley not withstanding; I've always hated those terms. What about you, Liza? [she doesn't have an appreciable opinion on the matter, she say's from the after-world]). Fair enough.

I found 2 large vats of protein powder amidst a pile of discarded items in front of a house not far from Patrick's (actually Jacob and I both found them, but he didn't seem interested). One of them is organic vegetable protein, and the other, organic whey protein isolate. They are the kind that are at least 50 bucks each at GNC, and were found after a night when Jacob and I only made about 9 bucks, busking.

They were right on time, in the sense that I had recently made up my mind to start exercising more after I had struggled to climb over a brick wall that might be about 9 feet high, in order to get into the Sacred Heart parking lot, on a night when the guard up front was asleep, and might not have buzzed me in, even if he had been awake. They have notified us residents that we all need to have key cards to let ourselves in, and there will be no more buzzing in by the security personnel at the front desk. I suppose that absolves them from liability, should they buzz in a mass murderer, that they were just guessing lived here, because he knocked on the door and held his hands out in a gesture saying: "Aren't you going to buzz me in?!" At least it's not the guard's fault if the psychopath is in possession of a key card, something that only official residents are supposed to have.

But I could recall vividly, being able to pull myself up, chin-up style, to the crest of such a wall, and get a leg over it, then just roll over and jump down on the other side, as recently as 10 years ago. I had to get one of my hands over to the opposite side and grab on, then pull myself up, scraping my skin as I did. Then I heard a cracking sound in my rib cage once all my weight had been transferred to the foot wide ledge up there. My ribs were indeed tender on one side for the next week, something I noticed while doing the Wim Hof deep breathing procedure. 

So, I made up my mind to start lifting the weights I have laying around the apartment, doing push-ups etc., and I am on the lookout for a chin-up bar of some sort.

The protein powder plus the exercising has already got me feeling more pumped up and I believe the crack dealers that hang out around the building have started to disregard me as a potential customer. Though, when I was 5 pounds lighter, and barely able to pull myself over a 9 foot high wall, they would often advertise their wares to me. 

There were also a lot of cat related items in front of the house, out of which I grabbed some rub-on-towel-off shampoo, and a bottle of "Cat Allure," spray, which is purported to "attract and delight cats;" active ingredient: catnip.

There was a scratching post, which I almost took because it was a real work of art and had a theme to it; but Harold already has every piece of furniture in the apartment to satisfy his scratching needs with.

Even the last time Jacob and I busked, and hardly made any money, there were beers and mixed drinks and a bud of some pretty good weed the size of a cranberry, handed to us.

The same thing every day...

A cynical person might think that this is part of the devil's welfare program, implemented in order to corrupt the souls of the indigent. You can go down the path to ruin free of charge in New Orleans, type of thing...

I knew that Elizabeth and I were kindred spirits when I read that she would eat "the same thing every day." She ate to live; she didn't live to eat. That's how you live to be 96.

I guess I'll go and watch, again, the queen's Christmas Address, that was televised around the time I was born; now that I have figured out that it was most likely her nascent attempt to communicate with me. It's her voice that gets me the most.

I no longer fear, nor dread, death. I am consumed with visions of rushing into Beth's arms, and of my coronation as King of the After-World, with she, my queen...