The Routine

 It's not much of a routine, just washing all the dishes in the sink and wiping down the counter in the kitchen....

On the street car into the Quarter, sipping on kratom tea with Jacob Scardino (left) circa. September, 2022

But, there is something to be said about the discipline of it. Before, I would feel overwhelmed by the chaos of the day. I suppose, if I started on some other task or project; in the back of my mind would be the dirty kitchen.
Now, once I have that out of the way, I can tackle the next thing.

I try to wash just a little bit of my clothes in the tub, so that the pile doesn't grow into every stitch of clothing I own except the stuff I never wear, and for good reason...
Other than that, I just wanted to come here and write something; anything, just to tick off that box.

I started to get to the list of songs that I'm compiling, which are ones that I used to do, in some cases "every night," and that have fallen out of my memory for whatever reason. The harmonica playing had something to do with it, as, stuff in keys that don't fit any of the harps I have kind of got lost.

I keep finding myself saying: "Wow, I used to do that song," when coming across stuff like "Dock of the Bay," the Otis Redding song that I know how to play, but haven't thought of, when out there at the Lilly Pad.

So, the list will help, even if I don't bring it out there with me (right now it's on a huge cumbersome poster board). I can just read through it to refresh my memory. When I was drinking to the point of blacking out a lot nights, it promoted a kind of laziness whereby I would just do the same dozen or so songs that I knew so well I could play them "with one hand tied behind my back."
But, that's the order of the day, this November 7th.

I suppose I'll go and vote tomorrow. The last time I was there the poll worker, who looked like a "woke" lesbian ignored me as I stood at the bay of the fire station, with nobody in front of me. Did she really think I was going to be deterred from voting because nobody had come and taken my ID and all that?

Then she had demanded that I put a mask on, as if still looking for a reason to turn me away. As part of apologizing for taking so long to get the thing on my face, I had told her that it was the first time I was putting the thing on. I could see the gears turning in her blue hair covered head. Could she turn me away for a reason such as: "You can't just put the mask on to vote if you never wear it otherwise; I can't let you in," type of thing....

What I've Done The Past 3 Hours...

Daniel McKenna III · Lost Menu Boogie

Not That The World Didn't Need A Stealth Bomber...

I have noticed a difference in the general flow of things since surrendering my will to "a higher power," as per the admonition of the Alcoholic's Anonymous 12 step program; to wit; step 2.

This is your brain

I immediately started having pangs of loneliness while out in the parking lot getting some sun. As I walked along, I felt that there were people out at my playing spot that I could meet and at least talk to.

So, I was on my bike at about 10 p.m. with the mic stand tied in an upright position to the rack, like a giant lightning rod behind me.

I got to the Lilly Pad and played.

Earlier, I had been at the Shell station with just one dollar and 5 cents on me. I had passed by a lot of people who were partying and I felt envious. I could smell weed and could see people drinking out of bottles of Patron (a $90 bottle of tequila, I kid you not).

I consoled myself by being grateful to have enough to buy Harold a can of food and as soon as I had reconciled myself to this feeling of gratitude, there was a folded up 5 dollar bill laying on the ground, beside the passenger side of an SUV. I bought a half pint of brandy and the can of cat food.

On the way out of Sacred Heart, I had encountered a couple residents who were sitting by the back lobby door, each one smoking a cigarette. I told them that I had just awoken from a 12 hour sleep, which was true.
"I took a Valium* and another kind of sleeping pill that a friend gave me, and that was at about 13 hours ago; I just woke up without any tobacco at all; could I bum a cigarette from one of you?" This was, I believe, the first time I've ever asked anyone for a cigarette since coming to New Orleans 12 years ago, by the way...

They both shrugged and told me that they each had bummed the ones they had.

At that, I went to fetch my bike, thinking I would ride by the Holy Ground bar and snipe a butt out of one of their ashtrays, and/or continue on to the D Mac's bar and do the same, or I would use the one dollar and 5 cents to buy a cigar that I could break open and smoke one bowl at a time, throughout the night; busking was also in the back of my mind.

There was no tobacco at the Holy Ground, as if the trays had been purposely picked clean, perhaps at the sight of me approaching on my bike. That was the negative thought that hit me -I have harbored the suspicion that some of the bar patrons are resentful of us Sacred Heart residents because we are all staying there for free, through one agency or another, and will do things like pick the ashtrays clean at the sight of one of us coming.

It occurred to me, as I was shaking off the grogginess, that either of the guys by the back door could have offered me at least "the last drag" off their cigarettes, as is a common practice between smokers. I wondered if they thought that I was out of tobacco, on this 4th day of the month, because I had spent all of my monthly check (that they might assume that I get) on crack, and thus thought that it was my own fault that I didn't have any tobacco so early in the month and, hence, didn't want to reward my recklessness with even "the last drag" off their cigarette. ...you should have thought about cigarettes before you started hitting that crack pipe...
I thought of digging through the dumpster at Shell to find an empty box from a carton of American Spirit cigarettes I would stuff it with paper or something to make it look full. Then I would return to Sacred Heart and go past them with it poking out of the top of a bag on my handlebars, so they would see it.

Then they would think that, not only did I not smoke up my entire "check," I even had the means to buy a $90 carton of premium smokes. 

Then they would squirm, thinking that I had a whole carton of really good cigarettes, while they would be back to trying to bum their next one. They would remember that they had refused me even the last drag off of theirs, even after I had told them that I just woke up after a 12 hour snooze to find myself out of tobacco.
Would either of them have the gall to ask me for a cigarette upon seeing "the carton?" Or ask me for a whole pack (because, after all I had "a whole carton") Part of me wanted to test the depth of their natures that way. And what snide remark could I have at the ready? "Man, I just bummed this carton, sorry..."
At least one of them, a guy I've come to regard as being pretty decent, might have phrased it as: "I don't suppose I could get a couple off you...?" as if at least acknowledging that he shouldn't suppose he could, given how selfish he/they had been..

At D Macs the scene was similar to that of Holy Ground, as if the sidewalk had recently been swept clean and the ashtrays emptied. I still tried to smile and make eye contact with the half dozen or so people who were distributed at the tables, all with bottles of alcohol, cigarettes going and with the smell of good weed redolent in the air.

That's OK, I thought, I was still grateful to have the cigar money, keeping my chin up in that regard.

Then I remembered Harold. I decided to set aside any selfishness and sacrifice the cigar in order to get him his can. I was at that point -to keep the chronological order of this intact- that I encountered the folded up five spot -just after deciding to put Harold's needs ahead of my wants.

So, then, with the half pint of brandy, I stopped in front of D Macs to gaze inside, noticing that the World Series was on the TV, and that no musicians had started playing yet, on their modest stage which has a house sound system so that musicians need not bring their own equipment; but can plug right in, with microphones already set up, etc.

There were 3 guys at the table nearest me talking about jazz and I heard the mention of "Larry Coryell and Alphonso Johnson," out of one of their mouths. It became evident that they were a 3 piece jazz combo who were waiting to go inside and play.

I didn't want to insinuate myself into their sphere so I just maintained my distance of about 8 feet from them, and no sooner had I decided to do that (and perhaps dispel any notions that they may have had that I was a skeezer who was lurking nearby, with plans of moving in for the skeeze) one of them spoke up, asking me if I was alright.

I told him/them about having just woken up after a 12 hour slumber.

"Is that cat food in there?" asked the same guy, looking at the bag on my handlebar.

After my affirmative answer we had a short discussion about the unavailability of cat food in general and how, even when a store has some, it is not necessarily in the flavors a particular cat might eat.
"I have a very finicky one," said the guy.

We found common ground on the subject of finicky cats, with me telling him that I had to canvas about a half dozen stores sometimes in order to find a suitable flavor.

It was then that I offered that "Larry Coryell's 'Live At The Village Gate' is "the reason I wanted to take up the electric guitar," alluding to my having overheard one of them mentioning him.

Then it came out that the guy who had asked me if I was alright was from South Hadley, Massachusetts -one of my old stomping grounds.

"I used to sell weed to the guy's in that band 'Phish.' They all lived in a band house not far from Hampshire College."

"Oh, yeah; Hampshire College...I loved the 'five college' area..." he said.

The "Five College" area was comprised of UMass, Hampshire, Mt. Holyoke, Amherst and Smith colleges. 

A student enrolled at any one of those institutions could take a course or two (or more, I forget the specifics) at the other four schools, through a cooperative program of some sort. 

This was great for the poor kids, whose parents might only be able to send them to the state run UMass. It allowed them to hobnob with students at the other schools, where tuition was $17,000 a year -in the case of Smith College (which boasts former first lady Barbara Bush as an alumnus) and something like $23,000 a year at Hampshire College.

This is your brain on drugs

Both Smith and Mt. Holyoke were started as women only colleges, but by 1989, when the 5 College area was my stomping ground, that designation had been removed.

The most expensive school, Hampshire, was generally attended by kids who wouldn't need a college education for any pecuniary reasons. The typical kid there was just prolonging his childhood for 4 more years before taking over as vice president of their dad's insurance company, or whatever.

The dormitories were like hippie communes, redolent of patchouli oil, with the walls airbrush painted in tie-dye colors.
One cool facet of the five college system was the ability of students to craft their own majors, outside of the tradition ones, and call them whatever they wanted. Diverse courses could be cobbled together to form whatever would ultimately be emblazoned on their earned degree.

I remember one kid in particular was majoring in "The Religions of Africa," and, as if pushing the envelope of the convention to the ridiculous, one kid was working on a degree in "Frisbee."

Before anyone hearing of this could laugh too long, it would be pointed out that the kid was concentrating on math, physics and science and studying the aerodynamics of that iconic toy and infamous college student pastime. Before even graduating, he had sold a patent or two to the Whamo Corporation for an improved Frisbee design, using novel compositions of plastic, for weight and flexibility; and, as Hampshire College lore had it, eventually he wound up with a lucrative position at Boeing, coming up with new wing designs, and such. With a degree in his cubicle recognizing him as a doctor of "Frisbee."

I used to deliver pizza to the campus often, and walking into the dorms was like entering a Grateful Dead concert, complete with the soundtrack blaring. These kids were already rich, yet many were able to parlay their educations into even taller stacks of money; as if the less one sweats over money, the more it flows. 

So, It was kind of a no-brainer that the jam band from the Burlington Vermont area would find their home in a two story Victorian style house that they all shared, about 2 miles from Hampshire College. And, as fate would have it; I wound up selling them weed, that I got from a deadhead friend.

This antidote amused the guy who had asked if I was alright and he then asked: "Do you want a hit," producing a bowl which he packed for me, after I had said something to the effect of "Hell, yeah!"

I told him that I felt as though that was a blessing and forgave me for having spent the folded up five on brandy, when I could have bought a 5 dollar bud instead.

He talked me out of putting into play the fake carton scheme. "You'll be putting energy into revenge that could be used for more positive things," said the guy who had seen the Phish house that I described before, but hadn't known it was them that lived there.

So, returning to my place aglow from brandy and weed, I loaded up my bike and backpack. This was Friday night, the 4th of November and hours before my food stamp card, which was down to $2.38, was to be loaded.

One cool thing about having surrendered my will to a higher power, or about doing that in general; is that I didn't have to use any of my own will power. Truly my steps were being directed by a higher power, and that entity was doing a better job than I could have managed myself. My desire for brandy and weed would go away, or not, through no effort of mine.

I mixed up the last of my kratom, gave Harold the last of his food, then went to the Lilly Pad.

Somehow just talking about the Five College area had rekindled some of the wide-eyed naive optimism that I lived with back in 1989 and, even though the Phish guys would ostensibly go on to have a more remarkable musical career than myself, this was something that I couldn't say for sure, as I went out with the same feeling that I had had back then, that I had something important to contribute to the art of music; and that it was something that no other person on earth could create. 

These thoughts had supplanted the negative ones that I have been backsliding into having, these past couple years; ones about arriving at the Lilly Pad to find someone else already playing there; or there being a loud speaker system blaring from someone outside the bar; or of sucking -the last one being probably the most deeply rooted fear.

When I first came to New Orleans it was in fear, after warnings of certain people, the essence of which were: "The best musicians from all over the world go to New Orleans and most of them don't survive more than a couple of weeks. You'll be playing on some corner, and there will be a guy 50 feet away playing Bach on a clarinet with his toes! People will be fresh out of some club where they just heard some world class music being played and then they'll be walking past you. You think they're gonna throw you a tip?! New Orleans will chew you up and spit you out; or turn you into an alcoholic!" type of stuff.

"Not if you're different," the guy from South Hadley had reassured me on that head, which stemmed from a routine: "So, what brought you to New Orleans?" inquiry.

I played for about an hour and a half and had about 25 bucks in the jar, with a young guy sitting on the stoop who had thrown 5 of that there, when it dawned on me that I wasn't overly drunk. And, that it hadn't really been a persistent urge to become so. The kratom tea and the joy of being different had kept me going.

Piano?!

I did take a break, going to get a can for Harold and one Andy Gator beer from Fred's Market on Elysian Fields road, leaving my bike unlocked out front.

I kept nervously glancing through the glass at it while at the register. I told the guy about what happened about 2 months ago when I had done the same thing and had gotten back to it just as a young black guy in a group of 4 of them had his hand on it, and appeared to be considering riding off on it.

"Yo, that's my bike," I had told him.

He had said: "Man, I'll take this bike and that piano on your back, if I want!" That was when I seriously considered getting a small pistol to put in my backpack. I imagined, if such a situation arose again and the young black kid in a group of 4 of them was serious, saying something like:

"Hey man, I don't want no trouble. Here, I just cashed my paycheck; you can have the money too, I just don't want any trouble," as I undid the ties on the backpack, then producing not the money but the pistol. At that point I could just point it at him and say something slick like: "Do you want all my bullets, too?" and I wouldn't have to shoot him, which would be good because the entire Quarter is under the watch of at least one camera. I wouldn't want to wind up having conversations with various cellmates for like 7 to 10 years that would go something like:

"You should have just given him the guitar and the bike, then called the police; you might have gotten it back. I've heard that the whole Quarter is under the watch of at least one camera."

"I know."

"He called it a 'piano?'" gushed the amused cashier.

"Yeah, that's happened before. I think it might be because they have early memories of going to church, where there would be a piano, and so they just formed the assumption that whatever makes music is a piano," I explained before hurrying out to where my bike was.

This is your brain on drugs with a side of bacon, a cinnamon roll and a couple wedges of persimmon.

Returning to the Lilly Pad, fortified with the knowledge that I would be arriving home with a can for Harold in a flavor that he likes, and by the Andy Gator double bock (alcohol content: 9.2%) I made the rest of what would amount to a 38 dollar outing. It was over the course of about 2 hours of playing and, hence, met my "average" earning of $18/hr., more or less.

Once again, I witnessed the phenomenon whereby, when I was playing my hardest, to the point of becoming oblivious to anything else, a 20 dollar bill found its way into the jar (that would have been the perfect time for someone to ride off on my bike).

I was glad that I had chosen music over Frisbee all those years ago; and I'm pretty sure the Phish guys are of the same mind (not that the world didn't need a Stealth bomber).

*It was Valerian Root, not Valium, but in my Valerian Root fog I had told them "Valium."

I Really Want To Make This Shot

 

It took me a while to locate my book on the Japanese art of decluttering; amidst all the clutter in my room.

I've been trying to establish a daily routine of sorts, which consists of me at least cleaning the kitchen at the start of each day.

It's hard to pinpoint the start of a day that might have me having slept for about 8 hours after being up for a couple days straight. Maybe I need to find some text about the importance of a regular sleep schedule.

The old schedule of busking every single night, along with producing a steady stream of a couple hundred bucks each week, would have me returning home at around 2 in the morning. This had been consistent enough so that, even now, I can often find Harold the cat at the back door to the building shortly after the street car that passes at around 2:05, passes. I wonder if that particular car makes a uniquely identifiable sound or if it is just the fact that it stopped to let me off that drew his attention. I'm not sure about the internal clocks of cats but I do know that at around 2:05 a.m. I can find him waiting to come inside and eat.

When I wasn't drinking, I could unwind after busking and be in bed shortly before sunup, and then be up at high noon, which occurs at around 1:30 in the afternoon here, due to where the time zone lines have been drawn.

I strongly suspect that if I practice the art of decluttering, it will yield a less stressful and more productive life. A clue to this is the fact that, each successive day, after waking up and cleaning the kitchen, I have been forging ahead and tackling one more task, which usually involves putting something away, out of sight, in a closet or a drawer. As an extension of the clean kitchen, with the uncluttered counter and the shiny sink, I have been encroaching upon other areas. Putting all my busking gear up, rather than leaving the empty guitar case and backpack strewn on the couch or on the rug seems to give me an additional benefit -there seems to be less distraction in my mind as there is less to process.

Certain things are taken for granted, like drawings hung on walls that I walk by every day but never "see." But yet, if one of them was to disappear, I suspect the empty space would become conspicuous.

The Jordan Peterson video of his interview of Newt Gingrich that I posted a short clip of yesterday included Newt using the example of the Alcoholic's Anonymous people's "12 step program" to illustrate a point, which was basically that the last 10 steps are dependent upon the acceptance of the first 2. Without admitting the problem and acknowledging that you are powerless to affect a solution of your own volition, and then accepting that there is a higher power that must be surrendered to, then the rest of the steps become useless.

This "higher power" is left to the broad interpretation of the alcoholic, so that he doesn't stumble over the same thought constructs while are of no use to him (see step one). I guess this is so that, even atheists can avail themselves to its agency. 

I knew an atheist, once, named Richard Conlon as a matter of fact, who shot pool "professionally." He told me that sometimes (as luck might have it) he would find himself in dire predicaments where he teetered on the brink of being in over his head. While feeling that his luck was due to change; he may have had to gamble his food money for the upcoming week, or maybe even his car, in order to break even. 

He said that, although he didn't believe in "God," there was something that he fell back upon when his path took him through that particular valley in the shadow of darkness. 

Faced with those circumstances, the would close his eyes and communicate to something unspecified; words such as "I really need to make this shot!" This had saved him from imminent ruin on more than one such occasion, he said. It also taught him to be more careful "the next time." I got the sense that there was some element of "bargaining" involved in the process, as far as one can bargain with a non entity.. 

He was clear on the fact that he wasn't talking to any huge man in the sky, nor anyone anyone affixed to a crucifix.

But bargaining is a function of the same thought constructs deemed to be useless by step 1, so that it is more of a surrendering to what is to be; and an acceptance which could be simply stated as: maybe it's time for me to go without food for a week, or "maybe It's best that I don't own a car at this point in my life.

I recently entertained the notion that maybe the maintenance of this very blog is like a millstone around my neck and that it was somehow putting me at a disadvantage. Perhaps it was fostering a feeling of accountability to my readers that was not helpful to me. I was leaving myself open to the possibility of shutting it down and quitting blogging. Then, I encountered the Jordan Peterson video, which reminded of the A.A. thing, which I decided to give some consideration to; and before i knew it, I was motivated to find the Japanese art of uncluttering book, which seemed to be right in step with all the other things and, all I can say is that I have written this here post, and haven't quit blogging as of this writing, at least.

I also felt a tinge of loneliness earlier and found myself craving the human contact that is often found when busking at the Lilly Pad, or at least saw it as an antidote to that loneliness, and an alternative to the fellowship of Sacred Heart residents who have all gotten their free government money and have descended into various deprivations and debaucheries.
 

I guess I really want to make this shot...  

And 81 Million Gullables Fell For It?

Can You Make A Dollar?

 What it looks like right now. I guess I had better go and serve them.

I don't know why I am chomping at the bit to get out there now, while I was more inclined to sit on my bed and listen to Moby Dick being read online over the past month, but, I guess I am "back." And ready to call Lilly to run away any other musician who may have unwittingly sat on her stoop and began to play. Lilly is a full on progressive left type who loves Liz Chaney and Hillary Clinton, yet she fights to the end to allow me to play on her stoop. As long as I don't wear a MAGA hat or play the harmonica too loudly....

Writer's Block

I used to read, write, do jigsaw puzzles, draw pictures, tend to plants, and do a lot of music -all while planning to take up yoga and maybe start jogging daily to an outdoor gym about a mile away where all the exercise "machines" are designed to use the body weight of the exerciser as the load (it's pretty ingenious, actually; you can set certain levers, gears, cogs and counterbalances so that if you weigh 150 you can actually bench press up to somewhere around 450 pounds, but you will actually be lifting your own body weight somehow). I have yet to experiment with that particular gym, which is spread out under a large canopy, so that you could work out on rainy days, even. That's because I have yet to start that particular fitness program.

Now other things are falling by the wayside; and I suppose it is because I am spending probably an average of 6 hours a day on Youtube and Rumble and Truth Social. Somehow, I think, a lot of stuff that I'm consuming on those sites is sapping energy from me...

Chaos Reigns

It's been pretty bizarre how fast time has been going by, lately. I used to think that being up at 5 a.m. would put one in position to have a "live-long" day, and become happier, healthier and wiser, but am now starting to wonder.

I am on yet another intermittent fast, using just juice for a couple days, and then maybe spring water. I'm starting to think that I need to get all food out of the house when doing this, as I have sabotaged the past couple attempts.

During my first attempt, last week, one after the completion of which I planned to convert the extra energy that comes with detoxification into totally cleaning and organizing my place, so that it would become a reflection of my mental state; there came a knock at my door.

It was Jr., asking me if I would store a bunch of food that he had emptied out of his fridge, so he could unplug it and let it defrost for a couple days.

I probably should have declined to help him out that way, saying that I was in the middle of a cleansing fast. But then, one of the ideas of the fast is to gain more self control. Like the alcoholic who can take a job as a bartender after he has conquered his addiction and "recovered," I felt like I could stuff my refrigerator with his food and, despite his saying "Help yourself," would be able to succeed in detoxifying myself.

But that didn't work out to well, as I eventually made some excuse for eating one of his hamburger patties (I didn't want to go out and busk totally famished, for some reason?) and then, having had the fast ruined then became the next excuse for pigging out after coming home from busking pretty drunk off all the drinks that people handed me while I was playing.

So, I'm going to end here, since my mind is in as cluttered a state as my whole apartment. I haven't done a drawing I mean to do, to place in my front window (because I'm wondering if I just want to do that so people outside will see it and say "Wow, he's a pretty good artist," which would be the wrong motivation for doing the thing...or would it?

I don't know because my mind is as cluttered as my whole apartment.

I took the first baby step in the material world by emptying and changing Harold's litter box. So I guess the internal equivalent is that I am doing this one thing, in a sea of unattended wishes, by writing this one blog post. Kind of like dumping out my cat poop onto the page, I guess. But I don't know, I need to get all that Jr food out of me and return to a more ordered existence...

Suave Essentials Ocean Breeze Infused With Sea Algae Extract; One Of My Favorites!

 

The Way A Day Should Start

Waking up at 7:44 a.m. with the sun moving in an upward arc, I let the fog of yet another strange dream dissipate.

It had been one where a group of people had invaded my apartment; at first, resembling the various social workers who had facilitated my moving in, back in 2014 -the women in dresses and the men in button up shirts, with one of them being very tall. There was something threatening underlying there presence in my place; I was aware that they had just shown up. This seemed to evoke the sense I have, living here, that certain people can just walk right in the place, such as the pest control guy whom, his knocks on the door with the accompanying "Pest control!" announcement going unheeded, will use some sort of master key to let himself in to ostensibly spray the kitchen and bathroom areas, then leave.

It was during one visit by that worthy, an occasion when I happened to be home, and had let him in, when he had stopped to stare at a picture of Donald Trump that I had cut out of a USA Today article shortly after his election in 2016 -it was the official "presidential" photo released by his staff, I believe- and affixed to a wall with invisible tape. The spirit in which I had done this was partly based in irony and sarcasm, and I wasn't sure if the thing was going to wind up serving as a dart board, or what. But the pest control guy had paused and said "Oh, that's not good!" which he worked into our conversation as if it was a rejoinder to what I had just said.

But, it wasn't in congruity with responding to my attempt at humor, as, what I had said was: "I haven't been plagued by too many pests lately; just the 2-legged kind, carrying tanks full of pesticide..."

Through the rapport that I had developed with the guy during his previous visits, I sensed that this would have gotten a chuckle out of him, but there was no mirth in his tone, as he spoke with his eyes fixed upon the Trump photo.

The very next morning I found that my first ever threat of eviction notice had been slid under my door, stating something to the effect that, during a routine pest control visit, the pest control agent(?) had noticed certain things in violation of my lease agreement, to wit: unsanitary conditions, food left out; food and cat litter on the floor, an overflowing trash can, and something wrong with the condition of the bathroom in general. That was the first warning, and three strikes and I was out, or words to that effect, signed by the management.

There was a bit of that sentiment in the weird dream. The really tall guy most likely represented Tim, the caseworker originally assigned to me, who was a textbook "neo liberal" or whatever the term is. He even prefaced his responses to questions with the word "So" when answering any -something that I have concluded comes from the world of "academia," and which is ubiquitous on PBS broadcasts, out of the mouths of anyone being interviewed. This would typically be someone like the owner of the first all-queer staffed Italian restaurant in St. Louis, or whatever, telling his story. 

"Why did you choose to open here?"

 "So, I grew up in this neighborhood, and..." type of thing.

Tim would go out of his way to inform me that, if it wasn't for Democrats, I wouldn't have gotten my apartment. I owed my whole living arrangement to Democrats, believe him!

So, maybe it isn't a coincidence that Sacred Heart Apartments has gone into a sort of decline, with the tailspin beginning right around 2016. Caseworkers like Tim were laid off. A proposed exercise room replete with treadmills and weight lifting machines was scrapped. The promised new computers along with in-house wi-fi never materialized (and, in fact the old computers started to disappear from the lab) and a general sense of apathy began to pervade the place.

A long time ago I figured out that dreams, mine at least, take their subject matter from whatever is on the mind when when drifting off to asleep. They are usually no more deep nor significant than that.

I had fallen asleep after having watched an interview on Youtube of a guy who had worked as a content moderator (turned whistle-blower) for Facebook. One of the things he said, besides elucidating the not too shocking fact that Facebook moderators look at all messages, both public and private, was that, often in the private pages of users he would find horrendous content such as videos of animals being tortured, and in one case, two minor girls being raped in a basement in Texas and the videos of such being offered for sale; with members being able to request certain acts to be performed, for an additional charge. The guy also mentioned a video of a guy having a gun put in his mouth and the trigger pulled, but the Facebook people saying that it was unclear if what is seen hitting the wall behind his head was indeed brain matter -it could have just been bullet fragments, and thus not technically a violation of terms- the ex-moderator added sarcastically. It was a disturbing interview; especially when he talked about an iguana being tortured to death by some teen aged kids...

The moderator said that he was able to identify several content creators because they had been "stupid enough" to do things like link to their actual bank accounts to receive money; but that Facebook had been more concerned with "political stuff," and the focus was upon shadow banning people who questioned the efficacy of the vaccine, or were posting pro Trump content. The "reasoning," he said, was that activity that went on in private groups was never going to go viral; it was just closed communities of maybe 30 or 40 people raping young girls, or torturing people and animals; and those were never going to leak into the mainstream feeds (and make Facebook look bad).

A pro Trump video, on the other hand, could be shared and re-shared to the general public; and, thus, had the potential to do "real world damage" according to Zuckerberg. 

And isn't that so?

The moderator was getting paid 15 bucks an hour to skip over videos of pedophiles being stoned to death in Islamic countries, and to delete comments made by anti-vaxers and election integrity deniers.

"Do you think so, Einstein?"

And, so that was what was on my mind when I drifted off to sleep and then dreamed about my apartment being full of Democrats who had just barged in, and who could do so any time as long as they were holding a tank full of pesticides or a spare light bulb.

Maybe I should make my first novel about a guy who is stoned to death because he likes to draw the faces of little girls; try to get it to print before the actual thing happens to me, type of thing...

If You Have Trouble Speaking, Call Your Doctor Immediately

My second day sober, and I broke the cleansing juice fast with some potatoes, which were the powdered kind, to which I reconstituted with water, olive oil, mustard, salt and pepper in the middle of the night. It' almost like it would behoove me to rid my place of all foods when embarking upon such a cleansing fast. The potatoes started looking good to me about 44 hours in...

I was asleep not much later, waking up around 9 in the morning out of some pretty weird dreams that were just slightly depressing, like a light fog that had to dissipate over a cup of coffee in the morning.

This made me wonder about whatever it is about the potatoes, probably the levels of starch in them, that caused my blood sugar level to dip to the point that I would have dreams that might have been enlightening, had I written down as much as I could remember of them upon waking, but which had me feeling kind of gloomy. I have noticed the same phenomenon after eating white rice before going to sleep.

So, I resolved to shrug off the diversion into potatoes and get back on the cleansing diet of apple juice and alkaline water. I've acquired a desire to read a lot more out of the library of books I have, and the mental focus that comes with fasting is helpful towards that goal. I used to read for quantity, thinking that if I stuffed my head with as much of the classics as possible, I would gain some kind of timeless wisdom. Now I realize that the quality of the reading is of paramount importance and, reading just a few pages of Shakespeare and then sleeping on them can be of greater value than rushing through a Tolstoy novel, trying just to finish it, so as to have it "under my belt" and maybe put another notch in my book case.

No sooner had I decided to run to the Family Dollar for more juice and alkaline water came a knock at my door. 

It was Jr., already drunk and probably stoned, and raring to jam drunkenly and stonedly on the 2 or 3 chords that he has under his own belt. I told him I was going to finish watching an episode of Game of Thrones and then walk to the store and back. This is the point where he will usually ask me what I intended to get at the store, and often offer me the same out of his own stockpile of foods, mostly unhealthy. "I' got a bottle of apple juice I can give you; come on, let's jam!"

It used to bother me a lot more to hear him repeat the same phrases over and over, like he is a doll that, when you pull its string and let it go; will only say one of about a dozen different things. I've learned the hard way that, should I take him up on his offer to jam, rather than go to the store, he will hold back on the promised bottle of apple juice or whatever, until I have spent an amount of time jamming with him, sufficient in his mind to compensate himself for the loss. I can usually walk all the way to the store to get my own stuff, and then return with it well before I could ever expect to quit his apartment with whatever he might give me on the way out. In the case of apple juice, that could easily be some "apple flavored" concoction of corn syrup and artificial apple flavor or, in the case of tuna fish, that could mean some bargain brand that has added "soy protein" or something else on my forbidden list.

But, pulling his string this time didn't produce one of his pat phrases. I owe this to the fact that I have blown him off over the past couple days; partly because he is a source of a couple of the addictions that I was resolving to kick, namely alcohol and weed, and certainly crack; and I hadn't answered his frantic knocks upon my door over the past 48 hours of my sobriety through fasting.

He wanted to play guitars, but was willing to allow me the freedom to go and get whatever I would at the store, without trying to short circuit the exchange in his habitual way. That's the thing about people who use others; they know enough to let out a little line, like the fisherman who knows that he has a strong fish hooked, that might disentangle itself through a combination of its brute strength combined with him vigorously reeling it in, and so he lets out a little bit of line to allow the fish to tire itself out some in between his attempts to pull it in. These are the type of people who will rip you off for, say, 50 bucks, but then show up later, apologetic and pleading for mercy with maybe 38 bucks and a few gulps of whiskey and a joint, begging for forgiveness and extending an olive branch, type of thing...

So, now I am back at the apartment, after opening the door to see the place full of smoke from a pan of coffee that I had been heating up but forgot about, before leaving for the store. Not a good sign.

I remember when I was a teenager, and one of the guys my dad worked with had a son who had been in a car accident. Because of the amount of drugs and alcohol in his system, according to doctors, his survival of the head trauma incurred in the crash came with the heavy cost of him having sustained some kind of brain damage. "He will go into the next room and then forget what it was he went in there for," lamented my dad. In addition to this being a dire warning to me about the dangers of drugs and alcohol, it also invoked pity in my for the guy. Someone who would go into the next room but forget what it was he wanted from there, was a pathetic individual, I thought. No drugs or alcohol for me, I thought. That probably kept me away from those intoxicants a few years past the time I might otherwise have experimented with them, I must say. I never smoked weed until I was about 18 years old. I made up for lost time, but can still notice a difference in my mental state compared to those who started smoking it at the age of 12 or 8...

Though, now, I leave a pan of coffee heating on the stove, then run to the store, while the water boils out of it; and return an hour later to find the whole pan glowing orange just like the burner, making sounds like cracking ice, and in an apartment full of smoke, redolent of burnt coffee.

I really feel more like messing around with music in my own place, rather than jamming with Jr. It would really be the hits of weed that I would be going there for, should I.

I just might make an appointment with the mental health professionals that I entitled to the services of through my medicaid enrollment. Maybe they can actually give me something like that Prevagen drug for memory improvement, and not something that will treat depression with only a slight risk of "suicidal tendencies" as a possible side effect.

"If you have trouble speaking; call your doctor immediately." (and blather to his secretary incoherently until she just hangs up on you, thinking it is an obscene caller).    

My Spirit Guides

Still On Foot

I walked down to Patrick's house in perfect weather; not a cloud in the sky, about 69 degrees and no wind at all.

I had some time to wonder why I had never asked the guy for his phone number. That way, I might have called and saved myself some walking.

After I got there and saw his electric tricycle in front of the house, meaning he was most likely home, there was no response to me knocking, meaning he was either in the shower, passed out or dead.

I killed some time walking around picking up some tobacco, then returned to knock again, in case it had been the shower scenario.

I wouldn't be returning to Sacred Heart on the bike this day, as there was still no answer, and I was in a hurry to make it back home for the start of the Patriot's game. I stopped at the Ideal Market and bought 2 mangoes and a papaya, along with a gallon of water, all of which came to about 16 bucks.

Then I returned home, hoping to log one full day of not drinking, supposing myself to be using a one day at a time strategy in order to take back control of my life. Stuff had started to pile up on me, and a couple days of juice fasting is in order to boost my mental energy. The videos I've been watching on the subject of literature has got me eying my bookshelves, wanting to read some of the books that I own which are ranked amongst the greatest ever written, at least by Benjamin McEvoy (top photo).

I'm going to want to clean the apartment thoroughly as I cleanse my body and mind, so I will have the patience and concentration required for focusing upon great literature. 

I imagine my appreciation for great music, along with my facility at composing will get a boost likewise. 

As much as jamming with Jr on vodka and weed might count, to some degree, as "practicing," falling asleep with my sneakers still on, and then having to get up at some point to turn off lights, and stop the laptop from auto-playing Youtube videos is not a lifestyle that is up to my standards. 

From those to whom a lot has been given, a lot is expected in return. A creative drive is both a blessing and a curse. Unfinished symphonies are a bummer...

Binge, Purge, Binge, Purge

A catastrophic Saturday began well enough with me being up and walking down towards the bus stop where the bus to Walmart stops.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky and it was about room temperature as I got to the Family Dollar where I wanted only an energy drink, as I was in the purging stage and in recovery from the day before and drinking only juice and the occasional energy drink. So far, so good.

One bus came as soon as I cracked open the drink and so I decided to wait for the next one, rather than try to hide the drink when getting on and then covertly sip it.

I came out of Walmart with bags loaded down with 7 pounds of cat litter, a tin of oysters and sundry other food items, along with a few cans of food for Harold and some "Temptations" treats, which are more like deserts than anything a cat would want to live off of.

I also bought a bottle of apple wine, made by a company called "Farm Fresh" winery or whatever, which I had Googled while in the store to make sure they actually used only fruit to make wine and that it wasn't just cheap grape wine with added fruit flavor. It is apparently fruit only and they make it from apple, blueberry, blackberry, cherry, cranberry and a few more. The cranberry flavor intrigued me, but it was the bottle of apple that I opened while sitting at the bus stop. 

There was a heavyset older black lady to my right who was eating what looked like a peanut butter and jam sandwich on white bread. She had a giant packet of BC Powder aspirin, which she proceeded to wash down some of, after finishing her sandwich. It occurred to me that she might be consuming something regularly in her diet that gave her headaches, and rather than explore any dietary solutions, she fought fire with fire by washing down aspirin a few times a day.

I opened the tin of oysters to wash down with my apple wine. This made her curious and she asked me what I was eating.

"Oysters, oh no, I can't eat oysters; I can't get them down, it's the texture of them..." she said.

I told her that I only ate them once in a great while and that I thought they had some trace minerals or something that something that lives in the mud under water (and probably goes back as far as lobsters and flounders in history) might acquire. "People have been eating oysters for centuries, and so we are probably adapted to them..." (unlike peanut butter and jam sandwiches on white bread, I didn't say).

I felt bad for the lady, who is probably on all kinds of prescribed drugs for all kinds of ailments that probably stem from her diet; and there she was, unable to swallow my diet.

On the bus ride back there was another older black man in the seat in front of me who was reading one of those post doctor visit forms that give a synopsis of the visit, explain the medications subscribed, etc. and it crossed my mind that an entire culture of black people might be being used by Big Pharma and the medical industry as guinea pigs, in cahoots with a food industry that has convinced them that a peanut butter sandwich and a bag of Doritos is a lunch that is going to help them be at their best.

Once back on Canal Street, I thought about walking to Patrick's house, but chose to drop off the 20 pounds of stuff I was toting at the apartment first. The bags kept bumping against my legs as I walked.

Patrick has a bike that he has offered to sell me for 50 bucks; and I had entertained the idea of bringing the 5 Walmart gift cards that I have gotten from doing the blood pressure application study to him, with 10 bucks on each of them to see if he would take them in trade for the bike. I've seen the thing and it's a beach cruiser style one with only one gear -something that really bothered me the last time I had one like that because the one gear is made for lazy "cruising," ostensibly along a beach, and I used to get frustrated trying to make any time. But, it would be better than walking, and Patrick said that he would ask 200 dollars for it from anyone else, but was cutting me a deal.

I still decided not to trade all the Walmart money for it, opting to get toilet paper, toilet bowl cleaner, dish washing liquid, the cat food, people food and, of course, the bottle of apple wine, instead of a bike.

After dropping off the stuff, I soon found myself walking to another store to get a bottle of vodka for Carlos, who lives on my floor and is kind of hobbled. Along the way, I ran into none other than Patrick, who, seeing me walking, told me that I could get the bike from him and just pay him the 50 bucks for it when I could. He could see the connection between me having a bike and winding up busking more.

I got Carlos his bottle, taking a gulp off it as payment for delivering it to him; and then, as I was crossing the parking lot of the Shell station, a black guy who sells weed and other things on that block, pulled up in his car and handed me a fat blunt, which was lit.

I walked home, shooting a few videos on my phone that I thought were rather humorous in my apple wine and blunt haze, and proceeded to start jamming away on my electric guitar, forgetting to walk down to Patrick's to get the bike in the process, and ultimately cooking up and scarfing down a pound of lean ground beef, which I guess contributed to me falling asleep; a blueberry pie insured that I would wake up with a slight heartburn; to begin The Purge, once again..

I have no idea what ever happened to the videos that I shot on my phone; I was trying to send them to Jacob in case there wasn't room in my phone's memory for them.

And so, this will be a Sunday when I do the Wim Hof breathing exercises, watch some of the Saint's game, which started at 9 AM because they are in London; and then I guess I'll walk down to Patrick's to get the bike.

My ego exalts in the vision of me showing up at Sacred Heart with a bike, just about exactly one month after mine was stolen. I imagine that whoever took it had a modicum of the crab mentality (whereby, when one crab has almost succeeded in climbing up and out of the basket that a bunch of them are trapped in, it will be pulled back down by the others that are trying to latch on to it in order to pull themselves out). 

By having a bike, I was able to pull myself out of the abject destitution that is the norm for most of the people at Sacred Heart. They would see me ride off on it with my guitar on my back and then would notice that I always seemed to have my needs met; as evidenced by the plastic bags tied to its handlebars. In their minds I was selfish and greedy, as a beneficiary of White Privilege who doesn't share the wealth; who never returns on the bike with the guitar on his back to break out a pack of cigarettes or a liter of liquor and pass them around among the "less fortunate."

So, to a degree, I believe the bike was stolen as much, if not more, to deprive me of it than to benefit whoever took it. And so, when I show up with another bike, I'm sure there will be dirty looks along with spitting on the ground directed at me by those who would whisk away my guitar and bury it in the dumpster, should I turn my back on it for a few seconds. Then, I would have to while away my days sitting in front of the building alongside them, asking everyone who walks past for a cigarette or a dollar. And I would have to enlist myself as a courier for those who get a check every month; running to the store for them in exchange for a few gulps off a bottle or a couple cigarettes.

But a white man can always get another bike or another guitar, by virtue of his skin color, they believe; not because he has actual friends with whom he has good relations, and isn't trying to use to pull myself up while pulling them down.

So I'm trying to check an ego that is looking forward to showing up on another bike, back in business again, having only lost a step or two. I just wish it could have been sooner; like the next day after the last one got stolen; that would have demonstrated a greater amount of crab proof-ness...