It is cold as fuck outside.
That's what I'm told when I rise. I grab for my heavy coat, but it feels as heavy as a wet blanket across my shoulders. I don't want to dress like this now. Not now. There's not even any snow on the ground. This is bad. But fuck the heavy stuff. I drop my coat on my bed and walk off, grabbing my library books and my gear and head for the Broadway Starbucks.
When I hit the outside, I find that it's not all that cold. I zip up my hoodie and I'm fine. I limp across the street...yeah, that's right, my neck and foot are still being a pain. I'm hurting for certain. I Quasimodo over to the Starbucks and find myself and another woman the only two in the establishment. Now I must tell you, this I like. I like it when I can come in and watch the people, especially the women, rush in and out on their mornings. I'm fascinated by the flow of life, even though I'm no longer a part of it. I'm set aside from the grind but it still never ceases to amaze me. I wonder what life would be like to be back into it. Have I been so jaded out here that such a thing might be a near impossibility?
I wonder what life would be like back in the grind. I think of shit like this as I sit in Starbucks, sending out email, blogging. I'm in my zone, doing my thing. The autumnal sun rises in the window, it's bright light streaking across the trackless miles of space to strike me across my face full force. It makes me squint through one eye as I try to focus on this computer screen. It's a warm sun, not hot, and a bright one. But not enough to break the chill of the morning completely. Soon will come the feeble sunlight, the weak sunlight and the gruesome cold.
The clothing of the patrons are beginning to change. Heavier, bulkier, jeans and fewer dresses, hats and boots. It's odd. It's almost as if it's really cold out. Heavy leather and furs when, honestly, it should be windbreakers. People are preparing for the inevitable. Planning for the worst. Either that or they can't wait to break out their winter clothes. Like the skating rink in Bryant Park, everyone wants to get on with the Christmas Spirit and the holidays. I wonder what the holidays will be like this year with people so afraid of losing their jobs and the economic downturn that the entire world, in fact, is feeling.
The immensity of this crisis is lost on me as I get up, pack up my meager life into a back pack and head uptown to the library, because simply, I don't have a living room to sit in and have some privacy. I have no window that I can stare out of, looking at the inhabitants below, I have no bed that I can crawl into unmolested by roommates wondering what I'm doing in the dorm today. Yes, the fiscal crisis is lost on me. I gear down at my favorite cubicle in the library and get behind my baby quickly. I really have nothing to do. I don't know why I'm in a hurry. I've done much of everything. I'm just spinning my wheels now.
Yes, I write a little on my screenplay. I'm wrapping up the last bits of the story so it's hard to do. I don't feel in the mood simply because I don't wan to finish the damn thing. After all of this time, and I don't want it to end. So I'm languishing in the finale. My wheels are stuck and I can't extricate myself. It's weird. I'm just trying to do that which a writer must do. END THE FUCKING STORY. And yet, I get tired every time I try.
I'm just not in the mood to finish it. So what do I do when I'm not in the mood?? Play 2142. Yeah, I 'get back in there', and 'take it to 'em'. I'm so busy trying to play the best game that I can that I reach my next medal in two days. That's incredible. It takes weeks to get to another medal, and I did it in a little over two days. Amazing. I feel like celebrating. Well, that's some good news.
I bullshit with James on IM for awhile, and he tells me that I should tell my story to the people at the television production company 51 Minds. They do reality TV. Something that's pretty big in this day and age. He says that I should get into contact with them and see if they would or would not be interested in OBSIDIAN's and my story. My brother and I always thought about something like that ever since we had Snap, the photographer from Italy, and Lu O, our radio producer follow us around. We talked about it, but there was no way to find what to do next. How do you go about finding a production company? Well, James gave me a gem of an idea. And you know me by now: If you give me an idea, I'll run with it like I stole it. I got online, searched 51Minds website and wrote an email off to them offering a copy of the radio show that we were in. See if they bite.I think it would make for an interesting story. Two homeless men, suffering for their art.
I leave my brother and head to the Box where I go and get my meds. There is no line for me tonight, which is very good, because I struggle up the stairs. My foot hurts just that bad. When I get to the Nurses' office, she begins to dispense my meds and then asks me do I want my painkiller.MY PAINKILLER??!!
Shit, I forgot that that wonderful Dr. A. wrote me a prescription for TRAZADONE recently. He had wrote it before for my prolotherapy shots to my feet. Now THAT was painful. But that was awhile ago, and when he wrote me out a new one, wasn't thinking about anything other than having them to go to sleep with. I fucking NEED a sleeping pill.
But now they were fully available to me for my pain in my neck and foot. Please! I'll take two. I popped them both and smiled. Soon I'll be free of all pain and suffering. I limp downstairs to the second floor dorm, waiting for the pills to take effect.That's what I will do for the rest of the night.
Wait for the pills to take effect.
Wait
Hobobob
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