Hurricane Season Approacheth

What could be more perfect than this, I thought as I listened, and concurrent with that rhetorical muse, a harmonica blasted away, ushering the song towards its final bars ("concurrent," and "final bars" being kind of a pun on the imprisonment of Ruben "Hurricane" Carter).

Ordem Y Progresso And A Couple Carters

How I had wound up hearing this Dylan tune at 3 am. Wednesday morning was through serendipity, which had begun to manifest almost a day earlier when I had woken up Tuesday morning 50 cents short of having the bus fare to go to the plasma place, where I could sell 690 ml. of that life-giving medicine raw material.

This laptop that I'm typing on now was dead as a door nail. I had shut it down and swapped one of the RAM memory cards with one that I'd taken out of an old Toshba that I'd stored in a closet after it died in 2015, rather than tossing it in the dumpster.

I hadn't forgotten that it was in there, but the idea of scavenging its memory cards hadn't occurred to me until I was sitting there squinting into the morning sun.

One problem with the thing, and the reason I had only shut it down a handful of times over the past 6 years or so is that the power button had become corrupted, along with certain number keys when a Styrofoam container of something had come open in my backpack and drenched the device in a salad dressing of some kind.

This meant I had no way of turning it off other than unplugging it and pulling the battery out, and that I no longer could utilize the numbers 4 through 0, along with the paired symbols above them. I worked around the latter issue by cutting those numbers and symbols out of different documents and saving them in a text file that I could cut and paste from whenever I needed them. That small aggravation has led me to stretch the truth on a few occasions, and report on this blog, for instance, that I had made 13 dollars after busking for an hour or so, when it might actually have been 17, but I wasn't in the mood to open the document and copy a "7" out of it, then paste it into the blog post (It's kind of a pain in the ass to even describe the procedure as in the previous sentence...)

But as I sat there, trying to look on the bright side as the sun blinded me, I thought about how the cut and paste issue was solved after Alex from California mailed to me the keyboard I'm using now. I had almost forgotten about that. Since that time Alex has been brainwashed by the mainstream media and has drunk the California "progressive liberal" Kool Aid that has intoxicated a good portion of that state's population.

There Go Your Reparations, People Of Color...In The Sky Over Ukraine...

The weird thing is; I can listen to "both sides" of any argument and it becomes evident that those progressives have only their feelings, along with the beliefs foisted upon them through their cellphones as fodder; while the other side might present factual evidence. Or at least convincing enough arguments such as Robert Kennedy Jr.'s contention that the CIA was involved in the assassination of his uncle in November of 1963. But, all the mainstream media, 99% owned by global elitists with agendas, have to do is compose some narrative, such as one claiming that Mr. Kennedy is an "anti vaxer" conspiracy theorist and that he is full of crap about the CIA thing, and then have that parroted by that 99% of "news" outlets (brought to you by Pfizer) and they will believe it. Because of the manufactured illusion that "everybody, everywhere" is saying it, they will conclude that there is a preponderance of evidence supporting it (just get on your phone for a while, you'll see!). As far as the 1% that might be blowing a whistle and revealing the truth of a matter, the 99% will lie and say that they are lying. That is if they haven't already decided to "cancel" the truth-tellers by refusing to even look at them...

Robert is going to get the Trump treatment because he is an equally mortal threat to the Military Industrial Complex. He will be fashioned as a "Putin puppet" and a treasonous quack in short order; and Alex and the rest of the sheep will swallow it hook, line and sinker...

But, is that a reason for me to detest the guy who once sent me this keyboard? It's more about the power of the machine to brainwash the ignorant masses, and the poor guy just can't see the forest for the trees. He hasn't figured out that PBS has been co-opted by The Deep State (and would, on cue, roll his eyes and think: a deep state conspiracy theorist, give me a break at the mere mention of such),

But, I guess it's not his fault; he has been hoodwinked, I thought, as I let any loathing of Alex I might have been feeling, dissolve, in the morning light, into forgiveness.

How I was going to come up with the 50 cents for the bus, I also let go anxiety over and any anger that I might have been fomenting over how futile I imagined asking any of my fellow Sacred Heart residents for 50 cents would be. They'll probably aske me for a dollar before I even get that out of my mouth, those derelicts...  I started to think, as I headed out on my bike to go find 50 cents somewhere. I became aware of the anger and let it pass, replacing it with gratitude over the money I was going to find.

I put the Spanish station on the radio before I left, and left it playing; for a reason I wasn't sure about. It was done in the same state of non attachment to any thoughts; not even to ward off evil spirits while I was out looking for money and tobacco...

So, yeah. I rode by a few spots and didn't find anything. But, when I got to the Goodwill Store parking lot, I noticed the spot where a group of Latinos are often standing around their pickup trucks with Latin music blaring, Corona beers in hand and the smell of weed in the air.

There were 2 cans of Bush, not Corona, beer sitting atop a cement column as if put there to attract me. I rode over to see if there was anything in them. There was -they were both almost full and still cold. And on the ground at my feet was a crisp 20 dollar bill that was folded over and looked like it had been stepped on.

I went into the nearby Brown Derby and bought a 3 ounce bag of kratom and a pack of cigars and rode back home. Someone had left a big silk Mexican flag type thing on the table in the lobby where clothing donations often materialize. It said "Ordem Y Progresso" on it. I grabbed it. It smelled really good. I brought it back to my apartment, where Latin music was still playing...

I sat back down in front of the black screen of the laptop that hadn't booted itself after almost 9 hours of sitting there. I said a prayer of gratitude, over finding the 20 bucks and, for some reason I substituted the way Latinos pronounce "Jesus," (Hay-Zeus) for the way we do (when we bang our heads on something or stub a toe) and with that utterance; the laptop's screen lit up and it booted right before my eyes...

And this continued the whole day, which flowed like a river. And at the end of the day, before writing this; a series of serendipitous clicks of the mouse brought the Dylan song to my screen; as if it was being supplied as the song to learn in order to have an impromptu jam with Tanya Huang on Royal Street every time I see her, rather than just chatting with her then moving along.

It was just as it dawned upon me that this would be the perfect song that the harmonica started to play. How cool is that.? Almost as cool as it's having come to light right after I became aware of, then let go of whatever ill will I might have harbored for another Carter character.

I hung the perfumed silk Spanish flag thing in my room, and am well aware that it might attract a beautiful Latina lady to move in with me...