Mailing The Portrait

• Harmonica Book Huge
• 45 Dollar Saturday Follows 1 Dollar Friday
• First Attempts Made With New Art Supplies

...just trying to see what the pens and pencils are capable of -not claiming this to be art...

Last night, I had that same feeling as if I might not make a cent and that same emptiness and lack of inspiration inside, that I have had before, as I rode the bike trail into the quarter; telling myself that I could just turn around and go back home if I didn't like the look of things. No obligations, no stress, no dire need of money.

But, I had spent myself down to about 4 dollars; not enough to cover postage on the portrait that I want to mail to Jennifer in Aurora, Illinois. I had spent it on cigarettes and weed. Thus, I actually did have the pressure to make back enough money to send the thing.

After having shown up at to post office without the address on me Friday, and then having gotten there too late on this Saturday, I knew I couldn't mail it until Monday, which would give me Saturday night and Sunday (if necessary) to make enough to cover the postage on a 4 ounce? package. I used to think that I was setting myself up for failure by doing this. Now I feel like I was setting the stage for myself to shine; to play inspired music because I was playing for postage money for sending a gift. It would hover around me like an aura; my purpose that is. All I know is that is better than feeling like I'm setting myself up for failure.

Like other times when I had that insecure feeling on my way out, it crossed my mind to stay in and try to conserve the 11 dollars that I had, which should have been enough to cover the postage; but not much else...

Portrait Still Not Sent

I had overslept and had missed the closing of the post office at 1 PM. I woke up at 1:30 PM., having not thought that I needed an alarm to wake me up so I could go and mail the portrait.

The portrait is looming large in importance to me; representing almost a year of sobriety and my ability to conceive of a project, and follow through with it.

I had thought that I had reached a plateau after a few months sober, where things wouldn't get any easier just by dint of my having quit drinking. But, there are some things that seem to be only "coming back" to me at this point of almost a year sober.

My attitude, stress level and musical ability have all appreciated slightly in just the past couple of months.

Can I get a "that's passable for your first ever attempt at using these materials" from someone?

Everything worked together in symphony.

Even Travis having crashed at my place for 10 days had a positive effect on my music, as he is about 20 years younger than I and, in my musical probings into what seemed to entertain him as I sat and played in my living room over a bowl, I found myself more comfortable with the tourists in his age group that walked past me.

Travis is from New York, which is kind of like the other New Orleans, as far as art and culture and all that; San Francisco being the other one.

I feel confident that I could busk alright in San Fran, however, not if the gays of which a big chunk of that population are as oblivious to tipping as they are when they come here for the Decadence Festival...

I guess I felt more "cosmopolitan" after having hung out with a New Yorker.

45 Dollar Saturday

Saturday night, I was at the Lilly Pad at the incredibly, for me, early hour of 8:09 PM.
My biggest fear was that I was going to be spent at 9:30, around the time I usually arrive, and that the traffic would be only picking up by then.

Blown Away By Harmonica Book

I tuned up and played "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas," on the guitar and harmonica.
Having pored through just the first few chapters of the Mel Bay harmonica book that Alex in California had sent me, gave me the full C major scale, and in a way that I could picture it, in regards to the written note. I was already "sounding out" the same notes but, somehow seeing the music written on a staff satisfies "that" portion of the brain, or something.

I guess the book reminds me that those are "musical" notes that are coming out of the harmonica and that it isn't (all) mumbo jumbo, and that a simple melody like the "Have Yourself..." song, over the "right" chords can sound nice to people.

The book is going to become very useful; I can tell. When I first opened it, I went to the very last page. As long as I have been using method books, the very last page seems to usually have on it a piece of music that is intended to weave together all the lessons and present them into kind of a "graduation recital" piece, or a final exam. This is especially true if the there are subsequent volumes of method books. It is usually a beautiful piece of music that is a reward to the student for having persevered, as well as a "make sure you can play this before going on to grade x," type of thing.

It was also a quick way for me to ascertain if the book was going to be too easy for me. If "Jingle Bells" had been on the last page this might have been the case. But there was some advanced chord melody studies of the type that I had just been getting into as a 4th year self taught harp player; the stuff that I had been intending to sit down and make sense out of. Some day.

Plus, there is a wealth of music that is known worldwide. The book puts into context the little insert that comes with every harmonica which basically tells you which notes come out of which holes. By setting setting them against chordal accompaniment, it does this.

Playing along on the guitar, I can get instant feedback as to whether or not I'm blowing into the right hole, for example. I can't say enough about the Mel Bay book. Plus,it's fun!

Tips seemed to be coming in steadily, with several people telling me that I sounded good, and just as many telling me to "keep playing,"or "keep doing what you're doing."

Friday night had been 43 degrees, and I had only made a dollar. There were a good amount of people out, despite the cold, but they just weren't the tipping kind. And I had no malice towards them, at all. 

I wonder if it is evident from watching me that I am trying my ass off just to hold it all (guitar chords, harmonica notes, lyrics, improvisations) together. Maybe it seems like I might be on to something, but the only way to know would be for me to keep at it...

I Play For A Near Record 4 And A Half Hours

Lynda DePanicis, a resident who, along with her husband, owns the house that Barnaby had been renting one side of, came over and gave me a 10 dollar bill and a hug. This was after maybe 45 minutes of playing.

Just hours before hugging me...

I was glad that I was playing the Christmas song, and it might have been that which impelled her to bless me that way.

I guess I could say it would have only been a 35 dollar night if not for her tip, but it was a product of my having played in her neighborhood almost every night for 3 years, and so I will count it among my nightly earnings.

Being seen getting a hug from Lynda, in all her finery, may have had something to do with the very next group of tourists stopping to listen to me. Things like that just elevate one's status in the eyes of the world. "I guess this guy isn't a nuisance, if the residents are hugging him...."

The Quartermaster people have been nice to me, giving me free coffee and a little piece of chocolate, during my nightly visit after I return the milk crate that I sit on, to them.

Things have really been coming my way, I must say.

Alex In California sent the art supplies. Ben my friend in Boston has sent some tee shirts. Bongo the resident here gave me some tee shirts. The Lidgleys have said that a Christmas parcel is to come.

I'm trying to allow myself to feel happy, rather than like something bad has got to happen eventually, to even things out.

On Not Drinking

• New Old Song
• 60 Dollar Thursday
• 164 Days Sober

I Report, You Decide

The "164 days sober" is still up and running, I didn't drink yesterday.

I had woken up with a depressed feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Something Told Me" (click to hear)" -one of the more listenable songs that I have from the era of being able to record...
The above is a link to a song that I recorded back when I had the means to record; it wasn't ready to go on a CD but I'm using it to motivate myself to get back the means to record; based upon its sound quality alone. It was done within minutes of having found the harmonica in my mailbox which turned out to have been sent by The Lidgleys, of London.
Last night a couple named Sean and Lucy, who were from England stopped and listened and tipped me well. Sean worked in Leeds and lived 15 miles away from it...

That (the depressed feeling mentioned above) used to happen at times when I was in jail and my fate hadn't been decided; maybe the prosecutor was pushing to give me a 5 year sentence as a "habitual" urinator in public or something; and maybe my public defender was telling me that "It could go either way; it depends upon the judge," and maybe I had been having a pleasant dream about my childhood in the days of wine and roses and woken out of it.

The feeling in the pit of the stomach (which is, for some reason, revisiting me lately) always had its onset when I awoke, even before I had opened my eyes. Opening my eyes vindicated my feeling of dread and it hit like a punch in the stomach, with some bile in the throat for good measure, when my eyes opened to reveal the 9 by 12 cell with the stainless steel toilet, and the mismatched-in-size shower shoes placed neatly at the head of my bed.

On Shower Shoes

Mismatched in size because in the massive daily shuffle of inmates they just don't have the time or patience or concern to go through the box to find a matching set to throw through the portal behind which they sit at the new arrival. Once one has been serving 5 year sentence and has made a couple of months of progress upon it, will come the realization to the staff that he isn't going anywhere soon, and then one of them might say: "Let me see if I can get you some shower shoes that are both the same size."

Placed neatly by my head to mark them as my property and to potential guard them against theft by another inmate whose mismatched pair includes one in the same size as one of mine.

Shower shoes because they A: Encourage showering and B: Discourage fighting. It's hard to keep them from flying off your feet when performing most Kung Fu moves, and I believe that Joe Frazier would have won the famous "Thrilla In Manilla" boxing match had Mohammed Ali entered the ring wearing shower shoes.

The shower shoes also, for some reason, always became a reminder to me that mankind has evolved to walk upright on two legs. That was always a tenuous hope to cling to in jail.

And, since todays post might as well at this point become entitled "Shower Shoes," I will add, for mere catharsis, that one time in jail, I had the song "Haitian Divorce," by Steely Dan "stuck in my head," on constant rotation, and when the line in the song "...no tears and no hearts breaking; no remarks" came around, I was impelled to stare at my mismatched shower shoes at that moment, as they stood there at attention at the head of my bunk, and their image filled the role of a video for that part of that song, especially the "no remarks" part.

I think that I was sensing a silliness in a society that in some quarters will take offense at perhaps a remark made by someone, contrasted with the ways of a more coarser set who needs to at least urinate in public in order to draw the ire of others.

I remember smiling to myself and deciding that when another inmate asked me the inevitable "What are you in here for?" question, I was going to facetiously reply: "I made the wrong remark." What could he do to me; in shower shoes, anyways.

On Depression

But, I am not waking up in a cell that is very real and that I really can't leave. I'm waking up in my apartment that I am fortunate to have and in which there are no shower shoes.
So, the feeling probably has its roots in the fact that I feel that my fate is out of my hands, out of my control.
This comes with the buskers territory. I can't go out and pick 5 bushels of blackberries and then take them to the market to exchange for the going market rate. I can only go out and pick the guitar and perhaps make 0 dollars, while spending $2.50 for the trolley ride to and from the badlands.

So, I went out yesterday afternoon with all 8 of my dollars and was going to get a half pint of tequila. I was thinking of travelling up the east coast, drinking and busking along the way; being "happy" and thinking also: "Why do I have to go on my blog and tell everyone that I am sober; that's not something worth staying sober over?"

But, I got to the store at the bottom of the street just as, from out of which, issued forth a corpulent lady whom I have never seen doing anything other than skeezing and whom has never said anything to me which wasn't a direct or veiled skeeze.

She was in the company of an older, crusty looking white man who was walking with the help of an aluminum, rubber gripped, tennis ball supported walker. I think the company that sells those, markets that model as: "The Skeeze-Along."

The corpulent lady was mumbling something to the guy out of which I heard the word "drinking," and not much else.

Then I heard the clink of a glass bottle coming from the black plastic bag which was hanging from one of the grips of the guy's walker. I think the glass clinked because he was removing the bag in order to hand it to the lady so that he wouldn't have to perform the circus feat of walking along with the weight of the bag unbalancing his rig.

I imagined their conversation to have been something like:

Lady: "Are you sure you got it? You're sure? Here, let me carry the bag, you got enough to worry about with that walker. I just don't want it to fall, that would suck!"

Guy: "Ok, here's the bag. You got it? You sure?"

Lady: "Here, let me wrap it around my wrist. You told them to double bag it, right? Always ask them to double bag it if it's a half gallon bottle. I don't trust these bags."
Clink!

The sound triggered something in me; perhaps the clinking of glasses in the proposal of a toast in a social drinking setting; or perhaps the sight of the skeezers made a bell go off in my head and there never was an actual sound from their bag.

I envisioned the corpulent lady saying: "You're just as bad as us!" to me in the near future, should I have gone in the store and bought tequila.

On Zebra Food

I went into the Quarter, started playing at 10:45 exactly and made 60 dollars in 4 and a half hours in which I probably only played half of the time.

At least 3 groups of people came along, hung out and talked and tipped.

I came away feeling like I sit there at the Lilly Pad with a pile of zebra food in front of me, sometimes going totally ignored. But then on nights like last night, up walk people who are holding reins with zebras on the other ends. My original music is the zebra food in the analogy. 

Everything's Better With Bluebonnet On It

I am at the Bluebonnet branch of the Baton Rouge library,
after having asked one of the librarians in Scotlandville: "Where is like the rich part of town, where everyone drives Lexus' and Mercedes' and goes to Starbucks for their frappicinos, toting their children along, who all attend private schools, take violin and/or ballet lessons and who will watch me play with a fascination commensurate with the fact that they have never seen anything like me in their entire short lives, and whose moms will hand each of them 10 dollar bills and say "Put this in his guitar case...that's it..."
I told her that, bless their hearts, the people in Scotlandville have been very generous, and that, in an allusion to the biblical scripture about the lady who, in giving her only farthing, gave "more" to the poor than the rich person who gave more to the poor, said that they have actually given a lot of themselves, just by throwing me a dollar...
That being said, I'm out here in "tasty meadows" fishing for some serious cash tips before the cops here realise that they have never seen anything (here) like me in their lives; and decide that they have seen enough.

The Bus Ride Here
The bus ride here took almost an hour. We are WAY on the other side of the tracks; this ain't no Scotlandville, nor Kansas, Dorothy...
We are where the squiggly looking design is, in the lower left hand corner, having come from near where Rt. 190 crosses the Mississippi River, in the top left hand corner.
We rode through the LSU campus, passing by all kinds of schools of agriculture, nursing, dentistry...
"Is this LSU?," asked Howard.
"No, this is Baton Rouge High School, Howard. LSU was that three story building back a ways; the one with the American flag hanging over its only front entrance..."
But, I didn't say that.
I am learning to translate his questions by putting "This must be" in place of "Is this?" so that, this morning for instance, when I was peeling off layers of clothing, all he was really trying to say is "You must be getting warm," and "This must be our bus," when that huge vehicle stopped in front of us and opened its door.
My Brainstorms
Being in a strange land, apart from making me wonder how I am possibly going to sing King Arthur a song, has sharpened my wit, along with causing me to moderate my drinking to about half of the French Quarter levels, and to think more strategically. After all, I am thinking for two a lot of the time.
I got the idea of selling some of my food card money to Howard, so that he can give me cash from his retirement benefit debit card, and I'll pay for his food; at a reduced rate -giving me a few bucks and saving him on his Pepsi and Cheetos, which comprises half of his diet.
The other thing that dawned upon me at dawn this morning, in Scotlandville, was a memory from the past of the places where I have "hands down" made THE most busking money; consistently. And that is on the off ramps of the Interstate highways -the same spots where the grass has worn into a patch of dirt by people who stand there and hold signs, hoping that the people in cars waiting at the red lights will roll down their windows and stretch out an arm, holding money.
The response that I have gotten in Saint Augustine and Jacksonville, Florida has been enthusiastic. I remember getting 65 bucks in one hour in that former city, standing at the junction of Interstate 95 and Rt. 16, at which point I knocked off. I could have stayed longer, but I wasn't feeling greedy. Another time, I made $108 in an hour (but that was an anomaly based upon one lady giving me a hundred bucks...), then returned to the historic tourist section, where my buddy Larry was lamenting having made only a hand full of ones off of those "tight" tourists.
One guy, who spoke to me throughout the whole minute that he waited for the light to change said, "Every morning I see the same guy holding the same sign that says 'stranded.' He's been 'stranded' since I moved here almost a year ago! At least you're offering people music instead of just standing there!"
More than half of the people who honked their horns and held money out the window said something similar.
I had pushed that aspect of busking out of my mind, though, because ultimately I only did it when in dire straits, always feeling a lack of satisfaction on an artistic level as, most of the people couldn't tell if I was playing The Rolling Stones OR Dire Straits. I prefer to be in a club or bar with an excellent sound system, so that the subtleties of music and lyrics at least have a chance to be appreciated.
But, someone once said "You gotta do what 'cha gotta do to survive"
This library is 3.5 miles from the Rt. 10 off-ramp; not exactly out of my walking range, but it does present the problem of what to do with Howard. I'm not going to walk that distance with the sound of his shoes scraping the ground falling further and further behind me, until I have to stop and wait for him to close the gap of 50 feet to catch up with me -with his tongue hanging out.
I think that he is too proud to not try to hang with me, or to admit that he needs to rest. I don't want to kill the guy.

The Bluebonnet Swamp

We are maybe a mile from The Mall Of Louisiana, where, out the bus' window we saw a Starbucks, Barnes and Noble, Lexus' and Mercedes' in the parking lot, and "Oh, wow! A Kentucky Fried Chicken!!" to the delight of Howard (-said he hasn't seen one in "forever").
I think that we will attempt to walk there, I will attempt to busk at the Barnes and Noble and failing that will go into Starbucks and offer to pay for peoples coffee with the gift card which The Lidgleys from London sent in their Christmas parcel and which still has 18 bucks on it, in exchange for a lesser amounts of cash. The times that I have had to resort to that in the past, many people just handed me money and told me to save my card for a rainy day...hence the 18 bucks still being on it...
One of several things could happen this afternoon and evening.
I could make money busking at Barnes and Noble, after we walk the mile to get there (I will hold a carrot in front of Howard's nose by repeating "The Colonels Chicken; The Colonels Chicken...to keep him going). 
Then we could find a place to sleep right around here, perhaps in the Bluebonnet Swamp -just kidding.
Then I could play the Rt. 10 ramp in the morning, with a sign that states that we are trying to get to Texas, perhaps killing two birds with one stone (three if Howard drops dead along the 3.5 mile walk to get there) by making some money and getting a ride, to boot.

Taking Inventory

The Instant Coffee

Where the parcel originated from

The instant coffee which the Lidgleys sent from London is; keeping alive a streak; excellent.
"Instant coffee" isn't "instant coffee," otherwise everyone would just get the cheap stuff from Save-A-Lot.
Last year, they sent Nescafe Classico instant, which made an excellent cup, and which required less of itself to do so. This year it is excellent, but I forget the brand.
I'm going to have some now.....
My thanks to the Lidgleys, if they see this before I get a chance to catch up on my mail...
Combined with the little stove which Alex from California sent and which runs off of "Yellow Heat," which is some kind of inflamatory which burns "clean," the instant coffe is a powerful assett, which will save me money on $3.19 Starbucks drinks, while not robbing me of the flavor and "coffee satisfaction," of that product.
And at those times when I can't use the stove, like in an airport which might have rules against open flames,  I can bring the giftcard to Starbucks itself.
Plus there is the priceless bonus of being able to walk into the hotels which are dying to be swank and exclusive but are saddled with the presence of a Starbucks cafe which is open to "the public," and patronise that cafe, sitting for a good while sipping and reading the New York Times and USA Today's which people leave behind....

They also sent three shirts, one of them almost a tye-dye, another the exact kind of shirt that the clean guy would wear (in fact, the other night, when I didn't see him there and I was wearing the shirt, with the third shirt -a long sleeved denim button up one- I was tempted to jump up on the spot and do a clean guy routine (think Bill Murray's lounge singing character; those old enough to remember that...)
Cigarettes were included; Benson & Hedges, which blow away American cigarettes like Marlboro, like a puff of smoke. An amount of cash, also, which gave me the freedom to do whatever the heck I wanted to, that next day, which turned out to be what I usually do, and all in all it was a well thought out parcel. They must have done their homework and read this blog, so uncannily apt were some of the things.
Not My Color
I went to take a shower at Rebuild yesterday morning, and saw Howard arrive to do the same, apparently planning to change back into the clothes that he has been wearing for the past month.
I gave him a couple of my shirts, now that I have 3 new ones. One which I gave him was the black and white checkered flannel one, which a lady had given me outside a church on a cold day. I had a couple bad sets tip-wise, wearing that shirt, and decided that black and white just wasn't my color.
I slept until 11 a.m. this morning,
at the "sign" spot. I needed the rest.
The poor souls at the library patio have to be up and out by 8 a.m., as there have been posted "no loitering" signs there, by the library staff.
They still loiter, asleep. I wouldn't sleep as soundly as possible, knowing that the posted signs give the cops carte blanche, if they ever need a dozen or so inmates, or if the Mayor say's, "Some of the NFL executives are going to have to stay at the Holiday Inn, across the street from the library, because there are so many people in town for the college games; could you guy's get the bums off the patio...?"

I look forward to having a covert dwelling, out in nature, where I can feed birds by day and possums will be welcome to approach my fire pit with their eyes glowing orange at night and feed off scraps from my grill, which will be laden with roasted fish that I caught that morning, out of the stream which runs by my camp which I have dammed up to form a bathtub, also.
Lions and Saints
The big news of the day, (for a street musician) is that, at 7 p.m. tonight, there will be a big-time NFL playoff game at the Superdome which, hopefully, will be attended by only those wealthy enough to purchase a playoff ticket, and who are patrons of The Arts.
The MP3 Player
I have lost a lot of music off of the MP3 player, after a mishap while trying to synch the device to the computer here at the library. It gets really "technical," the nature of what happened, but the result is, IF ANYONE CAN E-MAIL ME MUSIC AS ATTACHMENTS, I WILL APPRECIATE IT, AND FEEL FREE TO SEND MUSIC THAT IS NOT WIDELY POPULAR.
The Cell Phone
My phone isn't charging up as much as it used to, during an hour or two session on the computer here.
It might be related to the frayed cable, maybe the wire which carries the charging current isn't always connected...
My Glasses
One of the "arms?" has fallen off of my eye glasses. I can still wear them, as one arm is enough to keep them on my head. New Orleans just appears slightly tilted now. I think that the screw which holds the arm in place, unscrewed itself over time (the same time period that I was "screwing" myself, maybe) and that is the only problem with them. The real problem is getting to Wal-Mart and dealing with the situation at their Vision-Mart.
The Future
There is a playoff game tonight, another game Monday night, and then there is nothing keeping me here except a morbid fascination with impending doom.

Same Old New Orleans

As I walked down Canal Street,
and saw the scowls on the faces of the people, and heard the brass band playing on the corner of Bourbon Street, the one with the saxophone player that physically attacked a musician who had the misfortune of choosing to play on that corner, not realizing that it was consecrated sacred ground, I realised that it had taken all of 10 minutes back in New Orleans to have the state of mind which I had left here, before going to Mobile for 2 weeks, revisit me like a mist blowing in off the river.

But, since my time is shorter on the computers here, I should get to the most important thing first.
I am smitten by a Japanese singer/songwriter who I heard on the mp3 player which I got in the parcel from Martin W., of West Virginia.
I am looking forward even more to a possible relocation to San Francisco, because it is closer to Japan and the probability of my running into a Japanese singer/songwriter would be higher there.
The mp3 player was sent with Ritsuko Okazaki (above) already loaded onto it, singing "For Fruits Basket," which is pretty beautiful, despite it having a few borrowed chords from "I Wouldn't Have Missed It For The World," by Ronnie Milsap. 
Last Night was dismal, as far as street performance went.
I went back to the music store to remedy the situation of having a "d" string performing in the role of a "g" string. The guy dug deeper into his single strings and was able to produce a string which is meant to be a "g" string, which I bought for $1.
I then went and made no money at all.
If I had to have a night where I made nothing at all, it was a good time to have it, as I still had about 20 bucks left from what Martin sent plus what I had made the night before on the mis-strung guitar.

The place where the
Japanese music originated from, uncannily enough.

I have gotten e-mails saying that some other stuff is on the way.
Mom mentioned wiring money, and a parcel has been sent from London, destined for the Rebuild Center. I am praying that it will not take 58 days to arrive, like one sent to Mobile last year. I got that "Christmas" package in February. It had postage marks from Mobile, Texas, Mobile, Ohio, Mobile, Tennessee and finally, Mobile, Alabama, or something similar, I recall...the postal service is going to go bankrupt if they continue such inefficiency.
I will have to see about arranging with the nuns at the Rebuild Center to forward it, should I be in California at the time of its arrival, perhaps by contacting the Lidgleys of London to see if they have a record of the weight of the box, and its approximate dimentions, so that I might get a pre-paid box which they could put the box inside of, and send off to San Francisco. Those nuns can work miracles.
Other than that, I am down to 21 minutes, the temperature outside has dropped about 20 degrees from the comfortable range of last night, dropping along with rain this morning. I'm sure my sleeping bag got wet, but, that is because I was too lazy to tote it around with me all day, and hid it in a bush.
Daniel and Ritsuko, itsu mo! (for all time)

Warning: Written In Anger

• Everything happens for a reason, and supports us.
• There is no such thing as failure, only "outcomes."
• Whatever happens, take responsibility for it.

Rain
Last evening, it began to rain, early in the evening.
I had just spoken to Alan, who is back staying at the railroad track spot, where he is unprotected from the rain and from a mystery thief.
The weather forced me under my trolley before 8pm., where I fell asleep quickly, having had a cold for the past couple of days, and needing rest.
I woke up when the puddle of water, which normally only seeps under the trolley after a heavy rainfall, had done exactly that. My right elbow had gotten wet. I pulled myself a few feet further back, out of the puddle. This had the drawback of making me more visible in the morning, when daylight came. I used this as a catalyst to get up and go to the Presbyterian, for a cup of coffee. I gave my egg away.
The night had been passed fitfully; in a struggle to gain a positive attitude.
I was down to 13 cents, I had a cold, all my clothes are dirty, my hair is knotted impossibly and I am out of conditioner. My guitar strings are at the point of breaking, and the straps on my backpack are both snapped. My other backpack was stolen by the mystery thief, who might be Thomas.

Soon my spot will be uninhabitable, when the trolleys are put into service  for the Mardi Gras. etc.

I lay there making an inventory of everyone that I hated, and dredged up some that I had forgotten about; those who had wronged me years ago.
I Struggle With Anger

To say that I was struggling with anger would be accurate.

I think the trolley has an evil spirit. I often lay there with an imaginary film playing in my head, taking me back to all the times that I've been lied to, cheated and stolen from. My fists clench and I want to punch something. It's hard to go back to sleep with all the adrenaline flowing..

I am probably withdrawing from alcohol and tobacco, which I have not been able to afford the past 4 days.
It is also hard to have self esteem, when the world rewards you with little for what you do.
It was a mistake to go to the Presbyterian where everyone who spoke to me did so as a prelude to asking me for something; smiling like a cat and saying "Hey, guitar man, how's it going? Hey, you got a dollar?"
This was my time to ask somebody for something, even if it was a couple puffs off some one's cigarette.
It doesn't work that way. Myself, as a "white man" with all the advantages of having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth with my ticket to prosperity already punched, am not supposed to ask my "brothers" for anything at all.
It's just "not right."
*After all, the world is my oyster and I get a check every month from the N.A.A.W.P., don't I?
My friend in Massachusetts mentioned sending some money Friday, when I was using up the remainder of my "minutes" talking to him. I walked the mile to the Western Union place yesterday to learn that "It's not on here."
Then, I walked back into town, past all the guys who hang out around the Circle K, and who had seen me come out of the Western Union place.
They didn't seem to believe that I hadn't gotten anything there, and was broke.
Stingy, greedy and deserving of a beating, sure; but not broke. After all, I've got "that guitar" on my back.
I arrived in town just as the rain was starting to fall.

While I'm cataloguing my misfortunes: The parcel, which The Lidgleys sent (on December 11th) for Christmas, has apparently disappeared somewhere over the Atlantic...
I can't rely upon Alan From Las Vegas, either.
He had a handful of change this morning, which he got from holding his sign up on Government Street the day before. He held the money out in plain sight, and it seemed to me that his communication was "Now, if you had spent all your money on booze for us to share when you had it, then maybe I would be offering you a couple dollars now; See how it works?"
That kind of thing is right out of the co-dependent/manipulative behaviour Handbook For Addicts.
I have been fighting an impulse to look for reasons to hate everyone that I have seen today, with the exception of a very few. Frankly, most of them have been wearing expressions of hatred their own selves. 
There is a guy right now in the library, who is sitting in a chair and bobbing his head, as if he is listening to music that nobody else can hear. I don't even know him. I look over at him and it is hard not to hate him, even though he does the same thing almost every day and it never bothered me before...
I am off to work on my state of mind by sitting in the graveyard. I might go play on the street for some money, so I will have more than 13 cents.
Tonight is Songwriter's Open Mic at Serda's. I don't have a song. My "job" is music, yet I don't have a song ready. Something wrong there.
I brushed my hair out earlier, in the graveyard, removing in the process 3 brush-fulls of strands which snapped off. I guess I am saving the money for a haircut in the future.
If I run out of all my personal care stuff and end up looking ragged; I will consider hopping the train to New Orleans, where I should probably have gone a long time ago, where I can prosper in "the city of sin."
So, to recap: "Everything happens for a reason, and supports us" If you choose to believe that.
I could see the rain as certainly having happened for a reason, my catching a cold was probably from smoking a half cigarette, which someone left in an ashtray.
The way it can support me is if I make an effort to never be in the same situation again.
I'll be happier after making some of my own money tonight, and taking full responsibility for my situation.

I'm In A Church Choir Now

I Sing Gospel In A Church In The Hood

I'm in a church choir now.

Last evening, I was walking towards the general area of the shelters and churches which help the poor, and I heard a voice call to me.

It was a black man on a bike. He yelled "Yo!," or words to that effect.

I was immediately wondering if he wanted a cigarette, or to try to sell me something, or to try to lure me somewhere with promises of drugs and whores, and then steal my guitar; you know, the usual things that one wonders about....

He asked me if I played "the thing," and I told him that yes, I consider what I do to the thing, "playing" it. The thought crossed my mind: "Yo, my nig, how you tryin' a play ME?" This was because of the way I have been conditioned by past experiences, where things would have turned out better in the long run had I taken this attitude; anyways, I warily turned around. I was telling myself: "Don't be a totally snide smartass with your refusal to give him a cigarette." A lot of times when asked if I have a cigarette, I respond "Yes, I'm all set, but, thank you for your concern," for one. I was ready to pretend that I had absolutely nothing that he might want. I would tell him that I had just come from the pawn shop and they had said that they could only give me five bucks for my guitar, it being so messed up, and all. etc.

He asked me if I knew any "gospel."

I thought of the two times that we tuned into the AM 1400 station on consequtive Sunday mornings, Karrie and I, and how I had heard a couple songs twice, because of it (the one's which are played every Sunday, perhaps.)

To make a long story short, three hours later, I was standing in the back of a choirpit, singing as part of a choir.

Al, as he is called, after reassuring me of his creed to "hurt no man," led me to his house, (after we each grabbed a beer,) a short walk from the store. He opened the garage door, which revealed a garage, which had been detailed into a music/TV room type of room. His wife appeared, and we were introduced. Al put some gospel music on the stereo, which the group at his church was trying to learn. He seemed happy with my ability to work the chord changes out of the songs that he played. Partying and playing music ensued, and, before I realised it, I was on my way with he, his wife, and the "First Lady" of the church, I think she was called, to the church, which turned out to be in "the hood."

I went to the Wednesday night Bible Study and choir practice.

I Was The Only Caucausian There

They were musically tallented enough to be only missing one piece, I thought; perhaps a caucausian guitarist. There were certainly ones there who were pretty "serious" about the music.

We sounded pretty good, the 12 of us. And, as Al had "warned" me, I was the only caucausian there.

They sang one of the two gospel songs which I had heard twice on the gospel station, them being played upon consequtive Sundays. I don't want to toot my own horn, but I thought I sounded like Prince >>>>.

Prince, the pop singer, not Marzia Prince, the model (left). I haven't heard her sing (yet.)

The music was good, and has a lot of potential. The Lord must have put it upon his heart to suggest that I leave my guitar at the garage. We were riding in the First Ladies car, and room was of the premium, basically. It probably wouldn't have been good to show up and add a guitar to the mix, right off the bat.

Again, I think our stuff kind of sounded like Prince.

My Great Debate

I debate over weather or not to stay here longer.

I could probably stay here until the 28th, when John is going back to Jacksonville.

I would have to try to make money playing. I will have Al and his wife's hospitality for one more night.

After practice, I was allowed to sleep in the music room, shower in the morning, and have coffee, etc.

They know that I am meeting the Lidgleys tomorrow, and may decide to leave town. I am playing with fire in The Bold New City of the South (with the crappy football team,) because the same fate, which was Karrie's will be mine to try to avoid. Any day now, I may become wanted by St. John's County. They can't get me from here -not in the budget, I'm sure -and that is a reason to stay here. The reason to not stay here is all the accounts that I am hearing from people on the street, talking about Ocala. Many have said, that "They are trying to keep the jail full; It's big bucks for them, believe me!"

O (NO!) Cala

My Third Encounter With The Law

I started walking towards "the county," Saturday afternoon. A black woman pulled over beside me and actually asked me if I needed a ride. This is so out of the ordinary in Florida, where it seems to be "every man for himself." She drove me to the Wal-Mart. The ride was long enough to have me thinking about the walk back, and ruing it.

I got out on one of the exits and began to play. My sign read: "Street Musician Stimulus Package." I made three dollars quickly, then, a cop pulled up.

He was in an "unmarked" car. He identified himself as O.P.D., which I figured stood for Ocala Police Department. He said that I couldn't play my guitar there. "They don't want you here," was what he said. I told him that the other cops had told me that I could play in the county. He repeated what he said, and added enough information to make me think that he really was a cop and not some smart-ass in a Dodge Neon, trying to run me off because he had had a bad day and was looking to take it out on anyone.

The cops had said that the county started "past Wal-Mart" and I had been kind of playing ignorant.
The MarathonI went to the Circle K, where I was told that it was against company policy to let me play. I went across the street to a "Marathon" gas station and the kindly foreigner behind the counter told me that I could play, but, only "over by the air machine" thing. I sat over by the air pump, 50 feet from where people got out of their cars and went in the store. Nobody walked the 50 feet to throw me anything. I walked the 3 miles back to the spot where mine and Karrie's stuff is, and slept, after stopping at the dollar store and getting some sloppy joe sauce and a can of tuna.

Sunday, I was up with the birds, who have calmed down some. There is no bus service on Sunday, so, I walked the 3 miles back to the Marathon station. I figured that on a nice sunny Sunday, there might be a change of fortunes there. I had only made 5 bucks since arriving, 4 days prior.

I played on the spot, after being warned by some homeless types that I was subject to arrest for doing so. I knew that I had permission from the foreigner inside, and wasn't worried. It made me think that the homeless were baiting me, so that I would go away and leave the panhandling to them. I made only two dollars. A guy sat next to me drinking his beer and complimenting my playing. He said that he hoped that he wasn't interfering with my business by being there. I could never figure out if the presence of another person helps or hinders. On one hand, it looks like you have attracted an audience; on the other, it looks like one more mouth to feed and some people don't want to double up their tip, and they don't want to insult the two persons with 50 cents each, for example...
I Take My Chances At The Ramp
Monday morning, I decided to just go out to the off ramp of the interstate and dispense with all the other nonsense, roll the dice and get rich or go to jail. These are where I make 30 bucks an hour in Jacksonville.
I took the bus, and was at the ramp by 10a.m. I was nervous all the way there, wondering if the ramp would be accessible, if cars would stop in a line, or just whiz past, or if the interstate was in the "county," or the "city." I also knew that I was down to 33 bucks, and spending 3 of it just on bus trips.

I stopped at a store on the way and was accosted by a foreigner. "The restroom is out of order," he said, as I walked in. "Excuse me," I said. "The restroom is out of order, he repeated. I said "I'll remember that if I need to use a restroom." I went and got a can of 211 High Gravity Lager. I was going to go out and play absolutely sober, and almost did, but figured that one beer might only help.

I went out on the off ramp with my sign, which read: Street Musician Stimulus Package, and made only 6 bucks in almost an hour. I began to assess the risk vs. reward, of being out there and subjecting myself to the cops for 6 bucks per hour. I left.

I went and had another lager. I then returned to the opposite ramp, making only a few more bucks. I moved into the median strip and made a fast 7 bucks, and then, getting that creepy O.P.D. feeling in my spine, I packed up and left for the day. I had made 14 bucks the entire day, not enough to risk going to jail over. They will usually just run one off the first time seeing them. It is when a specific cop sees you a second time, after having warned you, that the trouble starts. With the Lidgeleys coming on Thursday, my thoughts were of them driving up from Orlando to visit, and finding me not there as planned. They might think that I had snubbed them, or was irresponsible. Since they read this blog, they might draw the right conclusion, still, it would have been a wasted trip for them.
Mind Racing, Considering Options
It is now Tuesday, and I woke up with about 42 bucks, up nine from yesterday.
I lay there this morning with my mind racing. I thought about the impending doom up in Jacksonville. I will suffer the same fate as Karrie, as soon as my citations turn into warrants. I thought about going to Jacksonville and getting my bike, and then travelling up the coast on it, playing One Day Stands along the Rt. 95 ramps. With the warmer weather, a tent and one sleeping bag would suffice, along with a couple changes of clothing. If I like it in any one spot, or, if there is employment of any kind (imagine that) I might settle for a while and maybe even take advantage of one of those programs "to reduce homelessness," which are out there. Some provide shelter, clothing, hygiene and assistance in obtaining work. The first step in a 12-step program is to admit helplessness. Checking into a program like that would make me feel that I had.
The British Are Coming, The British Are Coming!!
The Lidgeleys offered to give me a ride back to Jacksonville. I have two days to decide if this is the way to go. I will talk to the people who help the homeless here, and talk to the lady that runs The Wine Bar. Someone told me that he walked in there and was able to play his guitar for tips. He didn't say how much he made, but he also didn't say how well he played. Maybe, the Ridgeleys and I could do our dinner at The Wine Bar. That might get my foot in the door. They wanted me to select the place, and so far it's the only place that I have heard of. In the interim day before they arrive, I might try to play at the Marathon station again, to see if it continues to be futile. As I befriend the foreigner, he may allow me to creep closer to the entrance, (maybe six inches per night.)
Today, I had hoped to send Karrie a little bit more money. I had also hoped to make about 50 bucks yesterday, not 14...
A Nation Addicted To Sugar
I will probably wash my clothes behind some building, saving $2.50, and then write Karrie a letter while they are drying on one buck. I could send her just the couple dollars, which I would save. She could buy a honey bun for $1.20 and trade it for an entire breakfast tray. Such is the markup on a honey bun, once it goes within the confines of a jail. It's because they serve no sugar on the food trays, and this nation is addicted to sugar, amongst the other 11 or so things, which it is addicted to.
Mom
If you are reading this, I gave Karrie your address to return my mail, because I don't know where I will be. E-mail me, if you get a letter from her. I still don't know how much time they gave her. I might try to call. I am off to the shelter now, to see if they hold any hope for a better life here. I have yet to settle in here, and make a decent camp, as it has not been promising so far...
At least, I don't have to worry about the weather tonight.

Fourteen Dollars And One Cent

Karrie has been shipped to the St. John's County jail. It occurred at 10:18 yesterday morning, according to the website. I left the library and walked to the UPS store and bought a stamped envelope. I also got a money order for $14.01 and wrote her a 3 page letter and then went to the nearest mailbox and dropped it in, before something really bad happened to it. Such is the feeling, here in Ocala. I feel like I am the subject of a manhunt, and, at any time the police could jump out and yell "Freeze!"
A man who I spoke with, told me that the Marion County cops are known far and wide to be the worst in the state. "They'll arrest you for standing there, doing nothing." I wasn't exactly reassured.
After I mailed the money to Karrie, promising more if I ever got more, I walked to the store, and bought some tomato soup, corn chips, and a "hard" lemonade. They were out of Earthquake High Gravity Lager (I guess they hadn't factored my arrival into their order for this week.)
I returned to the spot where the Lord had shown me Thursday night. I had gotten to a point then, where the second round of thunderheads were about to overtake me, and I started to utter a prayer, something like: "Lord, you've never let me down before; you might not have given me everything I thought that I wanted, but you've...etc"
I hadn't even gotten past the "Lord" part, when, I looked and saw a building that was empty and for lease (like half of Florida,) Behind it was another which had a huge overhanging roof. I think it used to be for horses. I had found a piece of particle board which was just about my height and had exercised Option 3. and slept pretty well, especially as the rain started to pelt the roof, telling me that I had made the right decision, and that there would probably be no thugs out roaming the streets, looking for white boys.
My First Encounter With The Ocala Police
I returned to the same spot last night.
I had just about drifted off to sleep when the flashlights of the cops were on me. I thought about how the man had told me that they would arrest you for "just standing there," and I was glad that I was laying down.
They were apparently there because someone had broken a window and was sleeping INSIDE the place (as if the horse corral with the nice roof out back wasn't good enough! Some homeless people make me sick!)
I think they used "common" sense and figured that if I was the one who had broken the window in order to get inside, then why was I sleeping in the horse area. They train them upon things like that.
They trespassed me from the place and then let me go. I will sleep in the horse corral no more, under punishment of imprisonment.
I went back to the spot in the woods where I had gotten soaked, and slept adequately and didn't get soaked. My tenure in the horse corral was oh, so short, I thought.
My Second Encounter With The Ocala Police
I woke up in the spot where I had gotten soaked, dry, and being pestered by some birds, who seemed to think that they were there first. It is going to cost me some bread to stay there in peace any longer.
I thought about things, and prepared to go out onto the ramp to try to make back some of the money that I have spent.
I went to the Kangaroo and got an energy drink and then struck up a conversation with a guy, who has lived in Ocala for a while and knew "everybody." He wanted to hear me play the guitar and said that the cashier was "cool" and wouldn't mind me sitting and playing for tips.
I took out the guitar, tuned it and began to play. A cop pulled up and sat there. I had just started to play, and so, I didn't think that he had been called.
A man came and threw 5 bucks in my case, as I played "Eyes Of The World," by the Grateful Dead.
The cop walked over and said that he needed to see my ID, told me that there was an ordinance in Ocala against what I was doing. He searched me and my new acquaintance, who knew everybody. If asked why I thought this was necessary, I would say "Search Me." After he determined that I had no knives, no needles, no drugs nor anything else that he "should know about," he then told me that it was alright if I played "in the county," but not in the city. He told me where "the city" ended and where"the county" began (two miles down Silver Springs Rd. and past the Wal-Mart.) He didn't take me to jail because I was new in town and not necessarily expected to know the ordinance. Plus, I wasn't standing.
Now, I leave the library. It is Saturday evening. I will walk the two miles to where the city ends and the county begins. I will ask the guy or girl in the Circle K if it as alright if I sit and play in front of the store. If yes, I could make 50 to 75 bucks. If no, I will walk the two miles back to the spot in the woods where I got soaked and tell the birds "Shut up, I'm not in the mood!" Then I will sleep and wait for the Lidgleys to come on Thursday and ask them for a ride back to Jacksonville. I will have had enough.