Head Hangs in Abasement

I can't sleep.

I toss and turn. Wake up, piss, go back to sleep. Only to wake up again. I'm stressed, because in the morning I have to go to WECare and deal with those motherfuckers. That's not fun. That I really don't look forward to. But why should that keep me from sleeping?

I'm also worried. I'm worried that my head meds are affecting me somewhat. I'm living too much in the now. My long term memory is being effected. Things in the past are imploding. Vanishing. Going away. Even my typing skills are dropping. Long term memory is a casualty of alcoholism, and I know this, but I've cut back if not stopped slamming into the bottle...oops! I forgot last night. Drat!

My brother quoted Horace Walpole today for some fucking reason: "Life is a comedy for those who think...and a tragedy for those who feel." I never heard of it before. This is not true though. I know that I SHOULD HAVE, heard of it before, but I haven't. It struck a chord within me, that haunted me. What's going on?

Earlier, I had headed to the way to get on the train at 96th street. I was running on time to get to the SHOUT OUT at game time, only to find the downtown side of 96st street station closed. The only recourse was to either walk ten blocks up or ten blocks down. I look around me at the teaming New York street. It's like springtime out. People are dressed in shirt sleeves, light jackets, and sweaters. Well, son of a bitch. As people brush by me, still needing to get to the train station, I break away and head downtown, walking the ten blocks in disgust. This is just killing my commuting time. I made it down to 86th street in record time and in slid a number 2 train the instant I got to the turnstile. Beautiful, I'll catch this number two train, running local, to the number three train running express.

At 72nd street, I learn the bad news. There is no express service on the 7th Avenue Line today. What the fuck?? No. This train is making all local stops down to 14th Street. Damn. I look at my watch when I hop off at 14th. It's Four O'clock. That's great. I jump the L train across town and hoof it across the rest of the way to OTTO's. There are a collection of poets already standing outside of the venue, waiting. I walk in, and at the bar area are some more. Waiting. In the stage area in the back, there are still more. I am amazed. OTTO'S, I mean, the SHOUT OUT has a following that's growing. I set up the stage because there is no OBSIDIAN, hand out the sign up sheet, and get started.

There is no fanfare, no charge from the crowd, no raucous applause, we just launch, going into the first act to perform. As we get rolling, OBSIDIAN does appear. The show moves forward, running late, so pressed for time. While I'm on stage, who pops up in the entrance of the stage area but Charlie and RD. Charlie, my old business partner and RD, my old running buddy from New Jersey. The two of us were thick as thieves at one time. Tighter than a tourniquet, sharper than razorblades, we were the shit together. So much water under the bridge now.

It filled me with a sense of excitement and melancholy. The SHOUT OUT world around me shifted into low, as I felt my past once again closing in on me. Not constricting around my throat mind you, but rather a closing up, like in a coat...or maybe a strait jacket?

The SHOUT OUT had to finish on time. There were so many readers that we could not fit them all in at the time allotted. It's just a game of numbers. X amount of readers, subtract Y minutes from a finite number, and you get people that aren't going to get a chance to come up and read. Unfortunately, that's how it goes.

It was soon over and OBSIDIAN and I embraced our cohorts quickly and we chatted about the show, and briefly about what we were doing. There was just no time to get into anything deeply. When we stepped outside to blow up a tree, they were visibly unnerved. They were gone quickly after that. It was tough seeing them go. It would have been nice to have gone for a coffee somewhere and catch up on some old times, but maybe the next time.

Things seem so much different six, seven years ago. Have I changed so much? Had the time on the streets altered me to such an extent that I am no longer me, but instead a NEW me? Hobobob morphed from what I was as a dapper, smart, sleek business man to this dull, fat slob. Sobering, but I really didn't care. I was alive. I did my bid. I survived when others would have probably slit their wrists. Fuck it if I came out warped from what I was. I was, and still am, first and foremost, a survivor. I"ll never stop being one. As I worked these thoughts in my head we headed uptown, saying goodbye to the D2theL and ended up at Madison Starbucks.

We sat on our laptops, working. Working. Working. We are always working. Are we spinning our wheels? Are we wasting our time? The impressive growth of the SHOUT OUT belies that thought. Our efforts are reaching out to many, and the SHOUT OUT is swelling in size. Even Cyndi Lauper is acting better, keeping the music down during the show and behaving nicer to the poets. They do buy drinks.

I puttered on something on the laptop, the joke is that I can't remember now what it was. Maybe my short term memory is melting down too?? And then, from a deep stirring within me, something that was churning in the pit of my stomach, bubbled up as a single idea. Something that I was waiting for for some time. The idea of my next novel. I had to stop and sigh, as if the realization was more like giving birth or passing a shit. Innovative, new, different. It was something worth my time for the next few months. It was just a germ, like un-polished coal, that would need some work. But it had finally arrived. I knew that my brain would not abandon me without hope. A writer without an idea is like a porn star without a dick.

My brother and I head home, and on our way, he hits me with Walpole.

In the morning, I can't sleep. I get on my computer only to find that today is Sunday, not Monday. WECare is tomorrow. I've lost a day....

Maybe life is a tragedy.

Or else I feel too much.

Hobobob