Breaking the Darkness

Fucking NAVARRE is still down.

It is no doubt addressing systems through MAC addresses. Each computer has a unique MAC address and this address acts like a fingerprint. You can get your router to act on ID-ing fingerprints to allow access. I can tell because when I go into network status I can see the data rushing by but not rushing in.

My neighbor has gotten smarter.

FUCK. I always say fuck. It's my most favorite word and deed. Just so's you know.

I get up this morning, turn on my laptop and find that my browser can't find a signal. Great. I do my exercise and a new, special one that Doc A gave me. It looks pretty simple. Lying on one's side and then raising the upper torso off the floor with an elbow and staying in that position, rigid as a board. It's called CORE TRAINING, and THAT SHIT HURTS. It really, really does. By walking and doing this shit you build your core, otherwise known as your waistline.

I feel good because of my exercise and my diet. My body feels different already. I've only been doing this for two days. Well, not this. I've been exercising for some time now. My push up reps and this core thing, well a shorter time but still, it feels good. I pack like a flash, getting my gear on my back and heading to Daddy Day Care. I get there early enough to get my favorite seat and table. It reminds me of the Eye of God, but no. I don't want to name this one...well, maybe THE CORNER. Because it is stashed away in the corner of the establishment.

For some reason I am depressed on the inside. I don't know why but I am. I'm in a good humor, being that today I go to pick up my money order for the cable installation tomorrow morning. Now that is inspiring. So why the gloomy undercarriage? I don't know. Like my Haiku for the morning:

Broke, groping fingers
Black teeth, black tongue, black eyes
Death creeps by your door

Tell me about it.

I read something interesting today in Henry Miller: The Paris Years. It read: "At long last he had a place of his own. Avenue Anatole-France was park Avenue, and his monastic little room painted white, consisting of a bed, a table, and a wooden chair, was the most beautiful room in the world." This fucking describes my room to a goddamn T. It's a place of my fucking own too.

I ruminate on that as I walk through the cold avenues and streets to the 34th Street Post Office for a money order. Why the 34th street Post Office? I dunno. Still, I'm not the only one whose walked these Bohemian paths, this austere living.

I make it to the business library with my money order and set up my laptop next to Electra. She says hello this morning. I guess the cold front has passed. We talk about the same old thing and then she goes to sleep. I remember those days, sleeping in Penn Station, where you got very little sleep during the overnight and had to make up for it in the library. It was difficult going back then. Not getting sleep is how some torture people, and the police in Penn Station employ this very same tactic upon the homeless in the station. OBSIDIAN and I call it: 'Wearing them out by flight'.

I went to my group therapy and was taught to relax. I know how to relax alright...it's called LYRICA. Damn drug, can mellow out a raging bull. That's the only way that I can stand being in that group because there's just way too many clowns in such a confined space. Today, the entire crowd was in the room. This was the first time that I have ever seen that happen. I feel that the air is being sucked out of the room. Well, like I said, that was before LYRICA. My little helper.

I walked to therapy and walked back. Not all that small a task. A good half hour walk each direction, an hour total. Now I bet you Dr. A would be proud of me. Shit, I'm proud of me, even though my ass hurts. Yeah, I walked around so much today, from the post office, to therapy and back again that my legs throb and my ass hurt. I think that that's enough for one day, although we have Perch tonight and that's not going to be fun hurting.

The Perch Cafe.

Going to be fun though.

Hobobob