This Has To Be

I couldn't get up again.

But when I did, I was a whirlwind. I got online, got coffee, got dressed, got it done. Today was a big day. A tight day. We had to open up the SHOUT OUT on time and get IT done quick since we had to abbreviate our show. I had to be there early, so I gave myself an hour to get to the spot.

The trains were flawless. The first time that I've ever experi- enced that shit. The trains were prompt and fast, getting me to OTTO's SHRUNKEN HEAD, TEN minutes to Four. Several poets were hanging around the front door, which was locked. Fucking interesting. I waited. OBSIDIAN arrived shortly and he too tried the door. We all waited as the crowd at door grew from four to six people. Plowing through this crowd at Four O'clock was Cyndi Lauper who opened the front door and let us in.

I and the poets poured into the atrium bar area. Walking towards the back of the establish- ment where the stage area is, I found the folding doors before it closed and behind it a band was hard at work playing. Cyndi Lauper runs ahead of me and through the folding doors for a moment only to return, hooking a thumb behind her, over her shoulder. "They'll be out in ten minutes." Ten Minutes!! We're supposed to be starting in ten minutes. I didn't say this though, I walked to the front of the establishment where OBSIDIAN was. People were pouring in though the front door. "What'd she say?" OBSIDIAN ASKS. Ten minutes dude. "WHAT? We're supposed to be going on at Four." I hunch my shoulders.

Three people, a short woman and two tall men introduced themselves to us. We shook hands. They were new to the area and this was their first time in Otto's. Here's an interesting aside: when the handshakes went around, OBSIDIAN introduced himself first. When I introduced my self and shook the woman's hand, she suddenly perked up, as if my hand transmitted a shock to her body. "OH, You're Hobobob! I've heard about you!!" I was stunned. I hope it was good news. I'm notorious since that radio show.

Well, going on with this story: OBSIDIAN wigs out. We are already late. It was moving to eight after Four and we had to set up the stage area and the poets were milling about in the bar area asking when was the poetry reading supposed to start. My brother stomps through the growing crowd and through the folding doors. I follow in behind him as moral support, and a damn near army of poets were behind me.

What we entered into were a group of young people, playing Guitar Hero on their Playstation 3. They even had the plastic guitars and drumset that goes with the game. What the fuck?? They weren't a band. They were kids playing around. We walked through them, setting up the stage and giving the poets room to come in and take their seats. The newer, visiting poets were asking if the kids were part of the show. I went out to the bar area to get the microphones and cables to wire up the stage, while OBSIDIAN stood there, fuming. "I don't mind taking it up the ass, but at least give me some lube," he grumbles. "What the fuck is this? We're supposed to be starting now!" I scratch my head. "I know when I'm being fucked!" he says, and then plows through the folding doors, waving his hands in the air. "ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT collect your gear. The show has to start. We're starting the poetry reading now."

Unbelievably, the kids pack up their shit, smoothly disappearing. "Nice having you, but we have to start the show." OBSIDIAN says to the kids from the stage. "I'm one of the owners," one of the kids turned into a short woman before our eyes. "You have a show here?" "Yes,"OBSIDIAN says. "I'm sorry but we have to start, I have people from out of town coming in wondering what's going on with our show." The rest of the kids evaporated from the back area leaving the woman and OBSIDIAN to talk amongst themselves. I mind my business and set up the stage, break out the 'sign-up' sheet, and all the rest of the checks and switches that must be pulled prior to liftoff.

In minutes, we are ready. OBSIDIAN hops up and announces the show. We are off. We have reduced the time from five minutes to three minutes, OR one poem because... well you know it already, we have to leave early. The poets, amazingly comply. I look at the sign-up sheet. The first page was completely full. I look at the audience. It was packed seat to seat. We had a capacity crowd again. Word was indeed getting out about the show. Holy Fuck!!

We breezed through the show and finished twenty minutes before the cut off. We rocked and rolled the fuck up, gathered out shit like the kids earlier, and rolled out of there. It was an amazing show. Amazing. Our efforts to build an audience and reputation in the poetry circuit was starting to pay off.

OBSIDIAN and I left many of the poets still chatting inside the bar and went two doors down for our weekly fried chicken run. This was always our reward after a show. It's funny, to tell the truth, after the show, our reward was to go to the liquor store around the corner for two pints of something cheap. Now it's fried chicken. We just didn't even have a desire to go. Funny what a little time and age can do to you.

Both changes a man.

Hobobob

The Adam's Apple Doesn't Move

Social Services, succeeded in wasting my time yesterday, but I didn't let those mother- fuckers raise my blood pressure. There's a difference, you know. When you find yourself or others wasting your time wholesale, that shit makes you furious. Your pressure goes up because of your emotional heat and you are exasperated when it's over. It's a human trait to hate to wait. When meeting up with an inconsiderate friend somewhere, and you arrive earlier, you pace about, looking at your watch, huffing, rubbing the back of your neck, murdering time. When they arrive really late, there is a mixture of relief and anger from you. It's the anger part that Social Services seeks to elicit from you. They want to break you down in this fashion. You are becoming cattle.

But when you think about it, that's how the system is designed to work. It's made with a lack of communi- cation among its workers. They want important information to fall through the cracks, to make large, egregious errors. It is patterned to make it's workers look stupid and overworked, pouring upon them an overwhelming number of cases a day, almost in an attempt to break them more than the people they are supposed to help. It is modeled to take in increasingly large numbers of people and then line them up like cattle, and pen them in a corral to get their juices flowing amongst each other and have them at each others necks. This is all in order to raise their stress to the boiling point.

You have to realize that it's all bullshit. They send you a letter that reads that the meeting is Mandatory. That if I can't make it then you need to call to postpone. Of which I did. All day long. And got nothing but an answering machine telling me to leave a number. I don't have a phone like many homeless don't. How do I work that out? But then to go in for this mandatory meeting thing only to be held up all day and told that 'I could have skipped it,' when it looks like a Fair Hearing, is ludicrous. They are training us to disobey. You can 'skip' this 'mandatory' meeting but you can't skip that one. I wondered what the bitch/bastard would had done if we had the stupid meeting. Probably look at you blankly, listen to you tiredly, and then tell you that there is nothing that they can do for you, and that you have to go to the Fair Hearing ANYWAY. Just like they did me when I went to the last meeting.

There was nothing to do to vent steam yesterday and I seriously needed to do that or I would have popped like a balloon. I really don't know what I would have done if I did. Punch my fist through the window? Kick in the face of my refrigerator. Pull all of my coats and jackets from the closet and send them airworthy. NO, I did my ass one better. I got online and played 2142. I waxed the shit out of the little kiddies until I bored myself. Then I wrote poetry. Time slipped by. It was 4:00am when I called it quits. I was going to just stay up but I knew that around six O'clock I would grow as sleepy as Rip Van Winkle. I took my ass to bed and had some solid sleep. So solid that when I woke up at 6:00am I did not move. I easily slipped back to sleep waking up at 8:00am. I did my exercise, made coffee, got on the Internet.

An alarm popped up on the laptop screen, reminding me that today we have to start the SHOUT OUT on time. Early even, so that we are out by a quarter to Six. Fifteen minutes shaved off the show. That's hard after we usually go overtime weekly. But I have to be in OTTOS fifteen minutes early, that's so nice. Oh, and I have to do laundry. It's still piled up into neat stacks in my room....err studio apartment. That I hate to do more than Social Services. Which looks like I'll have to go to every day next week until I have their stupid assed Work Evaluation.

With the threat of the cutting of my benefits. These people certainly know which button to push don't they. They work their way as your support system and then they use that support to manage you. Similar to that of a Pimp or Pusher. It's under the same psychological line of reasoning. They are not unique in this, they are not smart enough to be originators of anything.

Fuck Social Services.

Hobobob

The Right Place For Melting Time

I'm not saying I was stressing out.

The train moved through the tunnel, milkman slow. I saw the streaked lights in the tube as a dance of lines and the commuters as blurs, smudges in my way. I went through Checkpoint Charlie in the Mines of Moria, and past their stupid guards. The time: 1:45pm.

I walk into the main hall, a frightening place filled with ex-cons, the homeless, single mothers, and a day care's worth of running, jumping, screaming children. Insanity ensues. I'm thinking to come early, before my appointment at 2:00pm and wait on a line of some twenty people. When I got there, there wasn't twenty people, but instead something like seventy five, on a line that wound around corners and down walls, wrapping around the entire hall like a halo. I got on the line, between two mothers and their uncontrollable brats. These children did everything imaginable, from throwing crayons, eating each others food, and pulling down each others pants. They ran in constant circles, screaming and shouting, having the time of their lives. Oh, yeah, the time? 2:30.

The line moved slowly, but it did move. We did a slow motion two-step, a maddening congo line that worked it's way without music. I got on the last stretch of the line and the mothers come back with dinner. Aromatic dinner. French fries, hamburgers...my stomach twisted from hunger. I didn't have a dinner yet, and couldn't leave the line now. The time? 3:30.

I inch to the third person on the line. The children are thinning out as their mother's leave the line and approach the reception desk. When I get to the head of the line I look down at my watch. It's 4:15. I'm called and I meet with the woman behind the desk, and she takes me aback. With a broad smile she greets me: "Good afternoon, sir." I'm stunned. Good afternoon, I reply. I'm here for my Fair Hearing. She nods. "You're not HERE for a fair hearing." Yes, I am. I show her the paper. She looks at it and then nods, scribbling on it, date stamping it and then looking up at me with the kindest set of eyes you can imagine. "Have a seat."

I head back into the main hall, where at it's center is a sea of plastic chairs, filled with...you guessed it, the riff raff of New York...like me. I join my people, taking a seat near to a raised flatscreen high on the wall and watched CNN. I watched as President Obama gave a speech and then commentators ripped it into small pieces. And then there was the Iraq war coverage. Suddenly my name is so badly called that I don't recognize it until she spells it out. Yeah, I say, raising my hand. I'm here. I approach the reception desk where there is a hyperactive woman waving around my paper. "You aren't here for a Fair Hearing." Yes I am, I tell her, It's right there on the paperwork you have there. "No, this is an MDR." She tells me what it is, I don't know what the fuck dribbles out of her mouth. "You have to go to the second floor. But only a supervisor can give you an MDR, and I don't know how long you're going to be up there until you're seen by one." I don't either lady. "You can just skip this meeting and make sure you make your Fair Hearing at Boerum Place." It says on the paperwork that this meeting is mandatory. "No, it's not. You don't have to make this one. This is just to AVOID a Fair Hearing." Well, I've been here for hours, if I can avoid a Fair Hearing, I'd rather do that. She huffs. "Awwright then, go up to the second floor. Don't get on the line. Just sit in the waiting area."

I grab my gear and head upstairs. Time now: 6:30pm. I walk into the second floor area. A small reception desk, no line and two score chairs in its center. The waiting area is moderately filled with screaming children, mothers and cons. The usual mix. I once again find a seat near a flat screen television and watch CNN. I wait. Coming from down a long hall that I remember leads to the case worker cubicles are caseworkers, dressed in coats and carrying their bags, saying goodnight to the four officers in the waiting area as they walk by. This flow of people comes in spurts. People waiting also give up, claiming that they'll be back on Monday to continue the self torture. The waiting room thins out to one woman and me.

The security guards put on their coats, leaving just one who comes up to me. "What are you waiting for?" A supervisor to give me an MDR. "Is one here to see you?" I don't know guy. They work here, not me. "Hey look buddy, I'm trying to help you." I shake my head, look at my watch. Time now: 7:45pm. He returns with a haggard looking old graying man in an open collar shirt, slack tie and baggy slacks. He looks as if he had been through the mill. He approaches the woman first, looks at her paperwork, then he turns to me: "What are you here for?" An MDR. Whatever that is. "Here come with me." He walks off and I and the woman follow.

He takes us back downstairs, through the main hall and smaller offices to an office in the back. Cluttered, with stuffed animals, plaques on the walls and piles and piles of paper on the desks, shelves and floor. He sits in front of a computer, presses a few buttons and then hands a form to the woman. "Here, fill this out," he tells her. Then he returns to his computer. "You...you do have an MDR today, but your case worker is not here. They should have told you when you came in." What are you talking about. I was on the line for two hours before even seeing someone. " They should have told you when you reached the reception desk. Your MDR has passed." What does that mean? "You don't get one." I want the MDR. I came here to avoid the Fair Hearing. "Well, your Social Worker is not here and the place is closed down. You'll have to go to Boerum Place on the Nineteenth when your Hearing is scheduled." FUCK!! He prints out a paper for me and I stalk off.

The entire afternoon to have my dick yanked. What the Fuck?? I head uptown to Madison Starbucks and find my brother busy behind his new laptop. I set up next to him and we get busy on the SHOUT OUT mails and paperwork. Soon, it is time to leave. Tonight OBSIDIAN does not ride the train uptown with me but instead stays in midtown. The evening is fair, almost spring-like.

I make it home, tired and relieved. I have to the Nineteenth before eviction. On Monday I have my Evaluation for Employment at the Mines of Moria again. Let's see how this shit goes.

Melt another day down and tell me to come back tomorrow.

Hobobob

Beatriz Stix-Brunell

Beautiful.

(Photo by Jake Chessum)

Have a fun weekend.

Have a lovely weekend! What are you up to? Here are a few fun posts from around the web...

Pianos all around Sydney.

Shhh...a behind-the-scenes museum tour.

A wedding rainbow and a rainbow website (via Lara).

Built by Wendy, I'd like to wear your dresses this spring, pretty please.

A love song to Trader Joe's.

Now, that's wallpaper!

Liking this pottery and these bike photos.

A smart idea for bridesmaid dresses.

Inspired by this Atlanta camera project, I did a New York camera project. Also, Sarah did it in Australia, and Anton did it in Vienna! This anonymous photo project is also awesome.

Have a wonderful weekend! xoxo

(Photo by Bjornar Bjornar)

You're in the Army Now

I woke up this morning and wouldn't let go of the pillow.

Now that's a first for me, because I tend to wake up, then sit up. Maybe it was because I woke up on my stomach and not on my back today. It was late for me. I like to rise before the sun, but it was well into 8:00am when I looked at the clock on the microwave.

You know what I did...I made coffee, turned on my baby, sat on the edge of my bed looking at my little altar, then my pot of coffee. When it filled enough for a cup I poured one and took a seat behind the laptop. Later, I would get up and pop a handful of pills. I thought of my options in the next few days. I've got money saved, so I'll not be in trouble right away. This will be a long slide back out into the street, IF it happens. I don't think anything will today.

Monday will register if I'll continue or not. I was thinking of my options if I cut loose from Social Services. I was on the Internet surfing for MRE suppliers, who sell them in bulk to the regular population at discount prices. For those of you that don't know what an MRE is, it stands for MEAL, READY TO EAT, and you'd be surprised how many websites sell the damn things. They're given to soldiers in the field as a survival tool. Basically, so that your ass won't starve if you're not near any food supplies.

You'd be surprised how many sites sell the damn things. At MREfoods.com they have something called Mainstay rations. A pack of twenty of these motherfuckers go for $88.00. That's $4.40 a pack. Can you beat that shit? That combined with a Self heating MRE at $72.95 for a twelve pack, which boils down to $6.08 a pack. So a day's worth of food would cost 14.88 a day, and that shit would last almost a month!!!

What's in these little, magical packs, you may ask. Well in just dealing with MREfoods.com they have an A-pack which has in it, depending on the meal: Beef Stew, or Chicken with Black beans, or Chicken Tetrazzini, or Pasta and Vegetables, with a raisin pack, cookie pack, peanut butter or cheese spread, and other shit. The biggest caloric pack contains about 1300 calories, which will keep me on my diet. Fuck. I don't know what's in the Mainstay pack but it contains about 400 calories a serving, breakfast and lunch. I think it's like one tremendous granola bar. But I'm sure I'll find out.

A total price of $162.95. Two weeks pay for me. With the next two weeks pay for rent, that will be a months worth of 'making it', baby. That's right. I'll be making it! With a little on the side for meds. Social Services can kiss my ass. Am I getting dramatic? Nope. I'm going into survival mode. They want to play rough?? I'll play rough. IF I have to pay rent, then this is the way to go. IF I don't then I have real money for meds. I'm good to go. Then I can take my time working on my resume again without Social Services waving food and shelter in front of my face like a bone to a dog.

Well, the Iron Wheels are a-callin'. Like I said, today will not be so bad. Aggravating, but not bad.

I'll tell you about it later.

Hobobob

Clumsy best man knocks bride into pool.

Oh my god, I can barely watch this wedding video. I love the guests' reactions, including the bridesmaids whimpering. As my mom said, the groom should jump in the pool and kiss her!

(Via Smitten)

Eating of the Elbow

I'm sitting behind my computer, my headsets on, Paula and her friends chatting just outside my door. I don't know why it annoys me that they do that. I wear my headsets all day and jam to my music. I don't even hardly hear them. But maybe it's just the inconsiderate nature of the entire act. I know that the rooms are small and it's difficult to have more than four people in your room at one time, but give me a break. Put on some clothes and take the shit outside, or at least to the elevator area which has a separation door.

I huff. I'm acting as if my sorry ass is in the Hilton Hotel or something. Shit. The wall intercom buzzes loudly. Who is it? "Snow White would like to speak to you." It's sunny disposition Roberto. Yeah, I'll be down. I snatch up some clothes, grab my paperwork from Social Services and head down to see Snow White. When I get down there, she is with another client and Sugar Plum. I decide, well, since I have to wait anyway, why not go to Duane Reade and pick up our meds. I do, and when I return Snow White is by herself.

Strolling in I choose to stand as I address her. "So how's it going with Social Services?" She asks.
Going, they gave me my paperwork to appear in Fair Hearing and Work Eval. She scans through the papers, and there is not much enlightenment from her. Neither from Sugar Plum when she walks in. I then understand that I know just as much as they do. They are no more professional than I am. After fighting with Social Services for two years directly I've come to have a much better understanding of how the System Works than the Social Workers do. That's because I've been through the teeth of the machinery and not reading about it from a book.

I return to my room stunned and tired of facing off with useless mother- fuckers. Which is what tomorrow is going to be all about. People reading from a playbook, and when you ask them to think out of the box they can't. They are all made numb by the machinery of the system. They are so attached to...so dependent upon the system that you can't even think of unplugging them, of freeing their minds. That's Morpheus from the Matrix. But Goddamn if this isn't the very fucking same thing.

Tomorrow will be a funny navigation. Both of these so-called 'Mandatory' appointments have only two options: 1) The Job Farm, or 2) cutting of my benefits.

Let's look at this in detail. First there is the Job Farm, or what I playfully call The Farm. I've been there before, early on, before my psychiatrists and the MI/CA label that they slapped on me. Here's the deal. Either they find you a job, which as you already know, are plentiful out there, and on your first paycheck they cut your benefits; or you sit in a class room and learn computers. Not anything that you can use in the workplace mind you. They teach you how to open windows and click on icons and connect to the Internet, and other pedestrian shit like that, and sit and wait for classes to start and finish for 35hours a week for your benefits.

This wouldn't be such a bad thing if I weren't LIGHT YEARS ahead of the training that they'll be giving me. I could be teaching the class and answer some of the myriad questions that their simple minded teachers have. So basically, I'll be there LOOKING FOR A JOB. Something that they just WILL NOT HAVE. So, to keep me off the streets, they want me to sit around in a stupid class and waste a week of my life throwing around paper airplanes and fondling myself.

Look, if you don't have a job for me, I understand, but I'm working towards self sufficiency on my own also. I can do a much better job searching through craigslist for some sort of writing assignment to build my resume for a real writing gig somewhere. I can do that because I have the TIME TO DO THAT, and I'm not wasting it sitting in a room with a score of other dead heads who are people with nothing to do all day long and who really can't make their classes a learning experience.

The experience is a strange one. Realize that the Penal System, which works hand in hand with Social Services, ain't shit. What the prisons do after someone has spent years in it, is push them out into the street with just what they had on them coming in. Basically the shirts on their backs. What are these men and women supposed to do? Where do you think that they go if they don't have a support system waiting for them when they get out? What do you think? They either filter into the streets as homeless people, muggers, skeks and thieves, or into Social Services. They fall into this system which pens them into these little 'classrooms' to keep track of them and keep them off the streets. That's how that works. Have you ever thought about going to a school of higher learning with classmates who haven't even got a handle of basic skills and you try to leap frog them into 'computers'? Who's fooling who here?

Self rescue should account for something. But then, there is the obvious alternative: having my benefits cut. This my pal, I would gladly do, and just might let occur. Sitting down and thinking about it, I can swing the rent. If HUD is actually swinging the rent, then I can swing the food. The only thing that I can't swing are the meds. And I will not last long without medical coverage. That's the real nipple twister, medical coverage. But I guess that's the case with all Americans today isn't it?

I need my meds. Like I said, I won't last long without them, neither can I afford them. So I'll have to either bite the bullet or figure out how to overcome that obstacle, and quickly. It's a toss up between eating and survival. That sounds funny as Hell. Eating and survival. Like they are mutually exclusive.

Now it's all timing. I can have my benefits cut tomorrow, or on Monday. Which one? Hmmmm? Monday. That'll give me a chance to renew all of my meds this weekend before the cut off date if the machine grinds to a halt immediately. Being caught in this before, I believe it takes a few days for it to actually happen, so I may still be able to stock up on my meds before the well runs dry.

Yes, because if I fail to get the verdict that I need tomorrow, the appointment on Monday can go straight up their asses.

Anyways, I have made my choice. I'm not going to waste my time on their Farm or any Farm for that matter. I'll go back out into the streets before I do that...which just may happen. But I think I can do better myself sleeping on the subways and in the parks than to melt away in a room full of OTHER losers and leave it up to them to find me the pie in the sky: 'job in computers'. The real jobs that they are looking for are street and park sweepers. The same jobs that they give to the convicts when they come out of stir. Those are the real 'computer' jobs that they find.

Fuck it.

Whatever happens, happens. I'll just deal with it when the pie is sliced.

I hope I get the biggest piece.

Hobobob

Stranger photos

Inspired by this Atlanta camera project, we left two disposable cameras on park benches--one in Manhattan and one in Brooklyn. That night, when we came back, the cameras were there and the full rolls had been shot. Check out the photos here....

Rings and things

I don't wear much jewelry, but I'm loving the simple pieces by Blanca Monros Gomez.

Wish You Were Here

I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, naked as the day I was born, staring at my new altar. The sun is beginning to stream through the early morning gloom outside my window. However, outside of my door is Paula and friends, chatting away. It's funny how my life is. Paula comes with me from the old shelter, The Box. We move into a ninety unit complex. Tell me, what are my chances of her being my immediately across the hall neighbor?

One in Ninety, right? Well, let's talk about the hobo-luck here. If a piece of space shuttle debris fell out of the sky and into Manhattan, if I was anyone else I wouldn't worry. It's going to hit Hobobob square in the head anyway. I'm a human lightning rod for it. Don't worry my fellow man. That's my sole purpose in life, the bearer of bad luck.

Yeah, now, let's look at my chances. She's with her new friends that were living here before she was, a literal pack of bitches down the hall, all four doors several yards away from me. What are my chances that they would make Paula their ringleader and spend most of their time congregated in front of HER door, klatching constantly? What? Well, you should be able to answer that one. Really, you should.

I stand and get dressed. This is the day that I meet Charlie. I can't say that I don't dread this meeting. It's just my reaction to the unknown. I sit down in front of my laptop, my baby, and patter away all day, waiting for the clock to run out, of which it does rapidly. It is time to go. I take the Way downtown and I'm sitting on a barstool in a quaint Irish bar/restaurant. My old haunt. Smith's bar and Restaurant on Eighth avenue. It has an old/new feel to it that I've always found comforting. I saddle up before the bar and order a beer and read a book. In no time a shadow forms over my right shoulder. I turn and look. It's Charlie. We embrace almost immediately.

He is slim, trim, looking prosperous, impeccably groomed. He sits down on the barstool next to me and I order him a beer. I look at him again and I FEEL just how far I've fallen. There was a time when I was his equal, we were business partners, running together, running a company. I was a mirror image. Now I'm sloppy, rotund, dressed in khakis, sweatshirt and hoodies. My biggest and only piece of jewelry is a ten dollar watch. Not even my wedding ring.

'OH, how the mighty have fallen,' goes the refrain. When asked how I was doing, I hold nothing back. I don't confide, but I don't hide. He is doing well. Times are tight as they are for everyone. His present company was growing like gangbusters until the current depression. His clients dried up and he had to layoff staff. Now he's holding on by his fingertips. I'm sorry to hear that. The family is fine, everyone is doing well. I look like I'm holding up. He heard me on the radio, but he doesn't really go into what he heard. In time we run out of conversation. He wants to know if we can meet up with his cousin, OBSIDIAN. I think I know where to find him.

We are soon across from the side entrance of St. Batholomew's church on Park Avenue where the soup line forms. The food van arrives and the homeless help begin to unload the food. OBSIDIAN is in the group of these helpers. Charlie runs over to him and they embrace heartily. The night is still young.

We end up in the Citicorp building, in the atrium while OBSIDIAN eats his soup kitchen food. We go over all times, reminding each other of the long chain of living that we have already built up among us. We have a rich and long history, and somehow it hit a rough patch. A patch that Charlie and I do not touch upon, we do not mention. We just let it go. It is soon time for us to separate and go home. We take Charlie to the parking lot that he has parked his Mercedes Benz. We all embrace, say our goodbyes and he is soon driving out of the lot and down the street.

OBSIDIAN and I head up the Way and part company as we do in the subway nearly every night.

I come home to my small room. My little world. It has not grown smaller, or even less appealing. OH, has the Mighty actually fallen...or has he escaped? I think of this as I undress, and get behind my computer, getting online and reading email. One hurtle behind me. Three more to go. In two days it'll be Social Services and my Fair Hearing in Brooklyn. Why Brooklyn all the time?

I'm going in.

Hobobob