Broken Pieces of Metal

I woke up at 12:00. Did it snow like all Hell last night? I don't know. I can't tell from my window. There is nothing but a brick wall on the other side of it. I don't know what to do today. I just lay there. Maybe I'll clean the room. It needs fixing up. Its a bit of a mess. I get up, put the dishes in the sink, clean the counter, put away bags of stuff into the cabinet, throw out trash and take a shit.

Then I write letters, and put on my clothes. I head outside and down to the nearest post office box and mail them. This is what bothers me. Well, first, it doesn't look like it snowed much. A bunch of snow here and there, but nothing on the sidewalks. Just a buildup on some of the cars out here. Not bad. I'm pleased so far, but it's cold. Very cold. This is not what bothers me.

People collecting for something. Save the whales, save the environment, vote this guy into office. Some shit. Always out on the sidewalk, accosting people. I may have stated this pet peeve before, but now they are out in front of my building. I can't escape them. These guys are standing, back to back, catching people in both directions on the sidewalk, for the ASPCA. Great. I walk past the first guy. He is bothering some woman on the other side of himself. Nice. I don't have to be rude.

I head down to the post office box and mail my letters, then I head back home, the ASPCA guy catches me. "I'm from the ASPCA!" he glows. I can see that. It was written on his jacket breast front. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" Sorry, not today. "Oh well, you have a great day." Yeah, you do the same. I cruise past him and slide into the liquor store, buying a portable of vodka. I just felt like it. I take it upstairs and sit down in front of my computer. It goes off. This is not good.

I turn it back on and check for email, IM, nothing. Nothing for miles around. There is no communication in my world. It's silent. And I'm so broke, it would make no difference if there was something to go to, I probably couldn't afford to make it there by subway. Whoopee. I like being so low on the totem pole of life that I can only just scrape by. The good thing. I seem to be able to buy a bottle of hooch when I want to. This works for me.

So I'm listening to Pandora. com, and I realize that this is the beginning of the new month. Which means that I have to come up with a dollar to listen to music for the rest of the month soon. Shit. How in the hell am I going to come up with a dollar to pay this? I'll be here in the room, quiet, can't watch television, can't listen to the radio, can't do anything. This is NOT good. Well, maybe there might be money on my debit card. I might have a dollar on it at least. Maybe.

I check. There is over two hundred dollars there. What? I look at it again, and deposited from a bank in Beijing China is over two hundred dollars. Now this is an interesting story. I had two hundred dollars on my account in October of last year and it had suddenly vanished. Disappeared. Debited by...you guessed it, a store in Beijing. I had bought all kinds of shit that I didn't buy. What? I wrote to them complaining, but the complaint fell on deaf ears.

Well, I gave up on it. Forget about it. Easy come, easy go, right? Now, today, I look and it's back! What the fuck?! What a great thing. Now I am solvent again. Shit. I smile from ear to ear. I think I'll do things this week, or what's left of it. I'm sitting in my room, reading, writing, I even crank out a poem, rugged and rude, but that's the poetry that I like. I want to write shit sometimes, because this is how I feel. I feel rugged and rude. I think now, back to when I lived in the box, and had to go to the Starbucks on Astor Place to get online, and how I would stay there writing poetry. Now that my life has become more and more steady and easy, I wonder if it has dried up my reservoir of desire. Of a need to write. I wonder.

I wonder. I say to myself, what am I to do if I can't write? What am I to do if I'm not creative? Creativity is deadly important to the creative. Without it, we don't feel like we are surviving. That is one of the reasons for this blog, to make me feel that I am still a writer. A drunk assed, fucked up, homeless... marginally homeless, unemployed, broke assed writer, but still a writer. I wonder what other writers were like before they became famous? Were they like me? Barely holding onto a life, wondering about what they were doing? Drunk, stupid, alone?

Were they just not fitting into society at large? Am I refusing to fit into society again? Maybe it's me? Maybe I'm the problem. I have to consider my predicament. I have to think on what I'm doing in the next year. 2010. What am I going to do in 2010 other than fight with Social Services. Hopefully GET OFF Social Services, but how?

Whatever.

Hobobob