I Might

Apparently it’s hump day. That’s the word on the street. I am still hamstrung by what a friend said to me back in May. I was trying to do something that was out of the ordinary and thought I was doing well with it, until I got the phone call. The friend was annoying and perplexed and irate and wouldn’t listen to my explanation, instead telling me how they would do things which were opposite the direction that I was going in. It did my head in and the train of thought was derailed, enough so that I have not been able to get back to what I wanted to do.

I think if I didn’t take the phone call I would probably be in a better writing place right now, further ahead than I had ever been before. Thinks would be progressing quite nicely. Or perhaps I would have derailed myself eventually. But in any event, the concept is still in the back of my mind, quite a distance from my fingers on the keyboard. Why they didn’t just write their comments in the comment section instead of calling me and stopping the train is beyond me. I am resentful.

So that’s my hump. Today was a laundry day, lots of t-shirts and underwear and socks. And shorts since it’s been months since I’ve worn pants. And also months since I wore a suit & tie. The job listings are slim. I get emails about jobs in Hoboken and when I check, they’re in Rumson or Princeton or Roseland. Any place besides Hoboken. The resumes dutifully go out, nothing biting, no responses. I can understand why certain people would be reluctant to suggest me for a job at their companies since they read this here blog and figure I would write about their job.

So it goes.

After the laundry I headed out to do some busking. I was a bit anxious about running into Tariq and the drunkard set and it was unwarranted since they weren’t around. I did figure out how to play Can’t Find My Way Home by Blind Faith and I played that for a while, even doing my best to approximate singing like Steve Winwood. It really is a beautiful song, beautiful enough to make me forget that the dreaded Eric Clapton is in on it. I prefer to ignore that fact and concentrate on Steve Winwood.

The first time I heard Can’t Find My Way Home, was on a stellar episode of the long forgotten television show Homicide: Life on the Street. The way it was used was brilliant and obviously it struck a chord with me. It wasn’t until last night that I figured out what those chords were. And don’t forget I did meet Steve Winwood while working at the cigar shack in 2010. Nice guy, a day off a tour and did not want his photo taken which I was cool about. I did shake his hand though and I do have the memory.

I did see the toddlers again. They get so excited to see me, they clap and jump and attempt to dance to whatever upbeat things I play. It really is a highpoint to my busking afternoons. The women who watch over the kids seem to like it as well. But once the kids settle down and sit on the curb to listen then it is time for them to go. The idea of being out and about is to keep moving, not to sit down. They always wave and yell ‘Bye bye’ when they are heading back to day care.

A few adults watch it and are generally amused and for me I’ve been timing my busking to coincide with the toddlers outing. I was hungry when I finished and decided to treat myself to Mamoun’s Falafel on the way home. I hadn’t been there since Annemarie left the east coast and I am glad I went. I sat inside and read James Wolcott last book, ‘Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York’.

Now I am home, probably in for the night and it’s not even 7:00. Not much to do and no one to do it with. Bill will probably be home soon, so that will be nice. That’s it for my plans.

So it goes.

Can’t Find My Way Home

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