Sunday, November 1, 2009

Guest Writer Joe

The guy walks by and says “Lock and load” and then mumbles something else that may not be a mumble but because I can’t make out his garbled Hispanic accent I mentally categorize it as a mumble. He has on a blue baseball cap—the rim flat and uncurved—and a blue hoodie with torn neck strings and is quickly forgotten after he leaves my field of vision. It’s a nice day. Mid sixties, I’d guess. A major improvement over the few days prior which were cold—I’m not sure how cold cold was in the last few days, but cold is a relative term so it really doesn’t matter much—and incredibly anti-productive for me. I am a result of the weather, I’m coming to learn/to know/to understand on this life trip that I try to remind myself daily that I am extremely fortunate to be a part of, which may hint at depression, but really there’s none of that involved these days with me. Drink a coffee and I’m okay. Which may be part of the reason that I sit at the Hungarian Coffee Shop on Amsterdam and 111th (there’s a series of ones again, something that has been a recurring theme in my life for a while now) just after noon drinking a café au lait. This morning, in fact, sitting on the toilet and listening to Counting Crows or Our Lady Peace or Crash Test Dummies I thought up an axiom that goes something like “It is when you stop moving that the world becomes a bad place. While you remain in motion everything remains good and inviting.” I haven’t gotten the quote down exactly, but that’s the basic premise. I was thinking of a quote by (was it Benjamin Franklin or Mark Twain) that went “The world makes perfect sense as soon as you realize that we’re all mad.”

I felt that uncomfortable-in-my-skin feeling last night as I talked to Mona on the phone. She enjoys talking on the phone. I do not. That, of course, results in an instant problem when I’m on the phone with her. She is English. Her grandmother lives in Baghdad while America bombs the shit out of her neighborhood. She is sad and uncomfortable about this war. She talks to me about anything and everything but. Although she was born in England, her accent is not entirely English. She’s lived in Egypt and Eastern Europe and Western Europe and other places that escape my mind and now in New York. She was once engaged to a South American and sometimes I think her accent resembles one from that continent more than anywhere else. Other times she is strictly British-sounding. Our conversation lasted nearly half an hour and I felt so relieved hanging up. She wants to see me. I’m not sure that I want to see her. She doesn’t do anything for me. She has a great body. I love her tits. But I don’t feel tingly when I look at her. That’s something I need. Besides, she’s thirty. At least I think she is. She won’t reveal her age to me, which means that she’s too old anyway. I’ve made plans to see her this weekend. Maybe we’ll fuck. That would be nice.

The weather turns. I feel a cold front coming in. Time to go home and grab a coat and become the cold weather version of me. I don’t like him nearly as much.

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