Where Did All The Tiny Dancers Go?

Sunday, at exactly  12 o' clock (commonly referrred to as "noon") I woke up.

I had less  anxiety than the day before, to a degree, because of the 14 dollars that I had split with Jacob after busking for maybe 2 hours with him the night before.

I had messed  up my finances and run out of money sooner than in any previous month since I started getting "retirement" benefits from Social Security.

There were too  many instances of me staying in to drink wine and stuff my face, rather than going out to busk, with at least a whole week of "90% chance" of rain hanging over us having factored into those decisions.

The tendonitis, which  I'm guessing it is, in my left ankle has been lingering, and I can just barely put all my weight on that foot.

I hesitate to  go to any emergency room, though I might do so just to get some kind of diagnosis through x-rays or whatever else they would use, and then eschew whatever chemicals might be prescribed to me, in favor of natural remedies; from websites that I'll have to find using Results Hunter, or Duck Duck Go, which will load very slowly, perhaps after a 'no internet connection' episode or two and play with glitches and a lot of buffering.

Before returning to  Google to undoubtedly find, at the top of my feed, some video entitled: "Why (beet juice extract) is a ripoff and (extra virgin olive oil) a scam and you should immediately see your doctor, who will talk some sense into you!"

It is incumbent  upon me to go see Elizabeth, clean her cat boxes, and accept some dry cat food and litter from her, for Harold, whose fault it is not that his owner spent money on wine and THC gummies that could have went towards those items...

It was the  breaking of a string, without my having a brand new replacement which curtailed the busking session, which otherwise might have gone on for another half hour and, I don't doubt, another 20 bucks for us to split. This being the global effect of my excesses over the past couple weeks. At least I got the rent paid, replenished my kratom supply, got a 35,000 puff nicotine vape (I'm counting them), and stuff for the house like toilet bowl sanitizers, and a couple new journal tablets and pens, as well as some 'disposable income' type purchases, like a couple vinyl albums, using money that, I knew at the time I would wind up wishing I had back...

I was able  to accomplish a goal that I have set for myself and ran through a new song about a dozen times, then wrote the lyrics out in the hours before going out to busk, so that a brand new, previously unheard at the Lilly Pad, piece was performed, with myself only missing (ad lib-ing) about half of those lyrics.

This gives me  a really good feeling; and drives away the imagined sense that people in Lilly's neighborhood are thinking: ...not this song again whenever I do one of the dozen or so from a set list that's growth became stunted after I fell into a slothfulness engendered by realizing that I could drink a few shots of brandy, smoke a bowl of weed, then just "auto-pilot it" through the same set of songs.

A busker should  avoid becoming sick of hearing the songs that she is playing, because the mood is contagious. Plus, it shuts down the connection between thought and emotion. This is inevitable, and why Elton John said he is able to feed off the enthusiasm of the audience for the material, but has long ago stopped envisioning tiny dancers in his head while up on stage...

You have just read 628 words

...And, The Skies Darkened...

The doldrums of  July are upon us. 

The month that Tanya Huang takes off (literally, for China) each year after having done the accounting, and made the assessments on the prospect of making enough to pay for busking itself -strings, batteries, transportation, maybe giving some homeless person $20 to hold the spot, who was going to be sleeping there, anyways...

Plus bringing extra  clothes to change into, out of the sopping wet, and stuck to the skin ones, each hour...

Tourists seem to  arrive in July on discount 'off season' arrangements, where they are probably getting such incredible deals on hotels and meals; why ruin it by throwing 50 bucks to a busker? type of thing...

Well, it has  been raining off and on due to Tropical Storm Bertha, and it looks like the switch is about to flip back to 'on..'

You have just read 142 words

Byron And Savannah

Avoiding A Lilly Call 

A healthy looking  sun rose from the below the horizon in the east, and ascended in an arc, towards a zenith, somewhere above the church where Louis Armstrong married Lucy in 1964. The church has been closed, God evicted; all his shit set out along the sidewalk...

Now, the moveable  letters, like refrigerator magnets in a glass case affixed to the front of the edifice have been rearranged by someone to announce that

''asses will now be held' at Saint Anthony's," about a half mile up Canal street, and a couple blocks off it.

There are other  houses of worship that one will pass on the way to St. Anthony's, but these are other gods, and can be ignored... they are not taking up much space and will do no harm...

Right now, some  very blue-ish gray clouds are starting to cover the sky to the north and thunder can be heard emanating from that same direction. And so I will close up this laptop, before a gust of wind closes it for me....

Update: Before I  could close the laptop and go off in search of shelter, a young couple named Byron and Savannah came by and asked me if I had a minute..

I told them  to ask the dark clouds that were rolling in overhead, if I had a minute (before rain would drive me away, type of thing).

They went on  to ask me if I knew anything about the very church that I had been in the process of writing about in the first paragraph above...

This turned into  about a 20 minute discussion between us, during which I came to realize that I really didn't know very much about the history of "Mid Town" New Orleans, other than that a statue had been torn down, and then replaced by a work of art that amounted to a pile of rocks, which were subsequently removed, leaving a bare pedestal. Then, we talked about Catholicism, and the fact that the church where Louis Armstrong was wed had been shuttered after being sold as part of the settlement of a class action suit filed by victims of sexual abuse at the hands of clergy. Asses will now be held at St. Anthony's...

By the time  we had talked for about 20 minutes and Savannah had prayed for me, the sky had cleared to blue with a few puffy Cumulonimbus clouds; and so I am able to continue on here; except for the fact that I am out of ideas to write now, right now...

Jacob and I  played at the Lilly Pad from probably about 10:30 until 12:09, when one of my strings broke, which I repaired so we could play until about 12:30, when a second one broke. A group of 4 men then strode past, with one of them asking us to play something, 'even Freebird,' he said. It was with considerable regret that I used the broken string as an excuse to not play any longer, since it was a Wednesday night (now Thursday morning) and I didn't want to have to get a call from Lilly this morning, which would undoubtedly have commenced with: "One o' clock, Daniel?! On a Wednesday night, when Chantilly has to be to work at eight in the morning?!" type of thing...

You have just read 551 words

Pictures Worse Than A Thousand Words?

The external keyboard  that Alex in California sent to me about 10 years ago, now, actually works when plugged into the new laptop.

The 3 foot cord on it allows me to sit that much further away from the blue light emitted from the screen, and turns the volume down on the tinnitus that I become aware of only when I think of it; or when I'm mixing music and working the 16 kilohertz knob trying to hear the effects of what I'm doing.

Poor Alex became  "radicalized" during the pandemic; unaware that the Internet in California is not a "regulation 0" zone, but more like what one gets in Israel, regulation 1 (or higher).

Speaking of radicalization,  I imagine that us Sacred Heart Apartments residents are fodder for any kind of experiments, of the "MK Ultra" type, that we might be being subject to, in exchange for the Permanent Supportive Housing we are the beneficiaries of. Nothing is free in this world, son; my dad would say...

Alternatively, I could  believe in ghosts...

I am one  of only a few 60 something's here who can walk without the aid of a walker -one of those "tennis ball' jobs, in some cases...

The ones that  aren't just up and dying, are having their lower legs amputated. They scoff at me and my sardine only diet, as I pass them in the lobby on my way out to jog; sitting in their wheelchairs eating snacks out of the machine, washed down with high fructose corn syrup sweetened "cold drinks."

The lady who  works the front desk during week days, weighs about 300 pounds, and is probably on first name basis with every Door Dash delivery person in town. She sits there, burning as few calories as possible, when it comes to anything resembling work (I think the button that can be pressed to unlock the front door, so that the person working doesn't have to walk over and push it open when guests arrive; will eventually have a placard by it, designating it as "the Miss Cherie Memorial Button" after she passes away).

She could probably  do her job from home; looking through a camera with a button in front of her, and could gossip with the same handful of residents, through Zoom.

I'm not trying  to disparage Miss Cherie, I am just feeling somewhat frustrated these days, seeing people around me suffering for their disbelief that their diets are making them sick. That makes me a nut-job, worms in the brain lunatic like RFK Jr; because that's what their phones told them that's what that makes me.

I will tell  them that I've never once set foot in either the McDonald's, the Burger King nor the Rally's in the neighborhood in the 14 years I've lived here.

I say this  motivated by love; despite them having been conditioned from an early age to hate me. Hatred is the easy way to go, but there's so much competition it's hard to get anywhere with it..

"You don't know  what you're missing!" might be their mouth-full-of-fries retort...

"You mean, like  my lower limbs?" I stopped short of saying...

I have one  more 15 ounce tin of sardines left, and am hungry for them already, here at 3:15 on this Thursday afternoon.

Waking Up With  Deborah Harry

I have been  alcohol and weed free for 2 whole days now.

I fell asleep  to a "Meet Your Spirit Guides" guided sleep meditation last night, waking up with Deborah Harry from Blondie singing the line from the song: "11:59" that goes: "...sidewalk social scientists don't get no satisfaction from your cigarette...' looping in my head...

I suspect that  one of the subliminal suggestions in that self hypnosis video that I mostly slept through is probably something like: "Cigarettes will become unsatisfying to me..." with my subconscious mind having connected that to the Blondie song, which was one of the first things I learned to play by ear on guitar back when I was around 14...

I took the  laptop up to the Holy Ground Irish Pub to download "11:59" and put it in my "Buskables" folder, where it settled in right next to the Phish song: "Harry, Where Do You Go When The Lights Are Out?," synchronicity being just par for the course these days...

I might bring  the 15 ounce tin of sardines up to the front lobby, just so I can say to Miss Cherie: "This is all I eat..."

Though, I know  that will only make her do the finger circling the ear gesture to the other obesities, as soon as I turn my back...

They know not  what they do; they've got so many platelets stuck to the blood vessels in their brains they have lost access to the higher functions of it, I believe...

It could be  that it's 11:59 on their life clocks...

You have just read 817 words

I'm Lucifer's Baby...So, Why Don't You Kill Me

The post title is a sendup of "I'm A Loser, Baby" by Beck (I believe is the artist) btw...

Monday again; and  I'm in pretty good shape.

I'm pretty sure there was no such product as this before I manifested it; shortly after having the 'Eureka' moment when I decided I'm going to start a Youtube channel of some sort. The entire history of the product was instantiated, and people's memories over-written, so that they would swear that these things didn't just 'magically' come into existence through the agency of some astral projecting guy in New Orleans. This wouldn't be the first time; I can point to several other things that just weren't in this universe until I personally needed them..
Prove me wrong!

I've been going  to sleep nightly instead of morningly more often this past week; have been taking 7 grams of creatine a day (if you are not seeing this post, it's because the algorithm has determined that you don't need to see "in pretty good shape," and 'creatine' in the same paragraph).

I've been drifting  off listening to guided sleep meditations on Youtube, a lot of which come with the advice that one must listen 'every night for 30 days' in order to realize the magical transformation, or gain the ability to manifest anything one wants.

I'm up at  the Holy Ground Irish Pub using their public wifi connection.

I count it  a blessing that the biggest guilt I carry with me nowadays stems from my using their wifi without ever going inside and buying anything. I put my most ragged clothes on before coming here; so as to strike a truce with them: "Don't tell me I have to buy something in order to download Elton John's "Caribou" album, and I won't go inside to do so and probably smell up the place, type of thing...

If they had  a keto beer, maybe...

Other than that,  I'm having a great day except for flashes of rage that well up then subside; because of the sobriety thing, I'm sure.

Just a few  days of a water fast hasn't been enough to starve the monster inside that wants a cigarette and then a few drinks towards sundown; and then a puff off a joint before playing the first song at the Lilly Pad; and then....

When I drink,  I'm more prone to act upon those impulses, so that's worse, I guess.

Because the one  I just had was of *** a n*** in the head, who tries to grab this laptop and run off with it.

I need to  write a script to detonate plastic explosives in the device through an Android app that I could write in the "Ruby" language.

Then, once the  fleeing thief is clear of other people; punch a code into my phone.

Windows rattle a quarter mile away; brown body parts fly almost as far...

Those are the  kind of reveries I often have on about the 3rd or 4th day of sobriety.

You have just read 391 words