And it’s back to Monday today… July 14th 2025 my niece’s birthday. Corinne is what we call her. She’s turning 39 which is a reflection of time in aging on almost everybody’s part, but my own he jokingly said to himself.
Today is humidly oppressive. Yesterday I did 14 mi on a bike ride up to North Bergen took the advice of my neighbors Mithra and Frank and went a little bit further up on the path that I was used to and I have to say I was literally underwhelmed by what was ahead of me. I did not get far and at a certain point it just turned around and did my own thing which seems to work best for me at least.
Next week I return to Liberty State Park because that’s a little more interesting. And I do have my routines that people on social media ask about. Mike has been staying with us since Friday which has been good. I think yesterday was the first day he actually left the apartment and that was just a cover to carry the groceries up four flights of steps as I was heading to do my bike ride.
In the office today it seems like Jimmy Chile is a bit distant whereas Marcus is a bit chatty and I look at myself in the mirror and wonder where that red splatch came from on the left temple of my forehead. I suppose it will bear looking into and see what happens. It was a bit unnerving but not too distressing.
So whereas the plan was to have Mike come over on Fridays and leave on Monday. Today we allowed him to stay and use the computer and search for jobs since he really has to find a job soon!
Bill has been running around driving kids from point A to point b with occasional stops at cd&e. He is able to stop by on Saturday for a couple of hours and one of those hours. He took a nap which was good. It was, since he needed it.
He did the same thing today without the nap and I gave him the heads up that Mike was just going to be in the crib which probably leaves Bill to scratch his head, wondering what’s going on?
I’ve been busy today at work filling in any requests that are asked, initially freezing sitting at my desk and wearing a cardigan, and then that got too warm, so I’m back to freezing.
Just got to make it to Thursday. That’s my goal. However, I do have to work on that. Ambitious career plan that the agency that placed me where I’m at is asking for a first draft singular.
I made penne pesto and chicken last night and also made a special sauce for Mike since he doesn’t like pesto. And I made enough to bring some for lunch today which was saltier than it was yesterday. I don’t know why.
I did not sleep well last night. That’s a lot of tossing and turning for me and the inability to get comfortable and Bills clock radio going off every 15 minutes with some talk radio a.m. nonsense. I may have broken Bill’s radio in which case I have to get him a new one but I won’t do that until he tells me “you broke my radio”.
A short while ago, smelling weed all the time on the streets was a bit unnerving. Nowadays, it seems to be commonplace, so much so that I’m getting used to it.
James Joyce via Gemini AI
The clock, a brazen brazen thing, a clacking beast of brass and gears, strikes Monday. Corinne, my niece, turns the impossible thirty-nine. A reflection on the glass, a shimmer of age on the face of the world, but not mine, no, never mine. A jape to myself, a whisper on the humid air. The city, a great, breathing beast, exhales a sigh of oppressive heat. It clings to the skin, a damp shroud. Yesterday, fourteen miles on the bicycle. A fool’s errand, chasing the ghost of a path up to North Bergen, led astray by Mithra and Frank, those well-meaning seers. But the path, the promised path, was nothing but a disappointment, a barren stretch of asphalt. I turned back, a reverse of the self, a return to the known, the familiar, the path of my own making.
Next week, Liberty State Park calls. The wind on the water, the familiar contours of the land, a comforting rhythm. People on the internet, they ask about my routines, my habits, my little rituals of motion. The world asks, and I answer, a simple echo in the great cavern of noise. And Mike, a shadow in the doorway, has been with us since Friday. He stepped out yesterday, a strange and wonderful event, a journey from the four flights of stairs, the weight of groceries on his back, a brief moment of freedom before the return to the confines of our little box in the sky.
In the office, the world spins in a chaotic ballet. Jimmy Chile, a distant star, his light dimmed and cold. Marcus, a chattering bird, a constant song of noise. And I, I stare into the glass, the ghost of my own face reflected back. A splatch of red, a sudden stain on the left temple. A mark of the beast, a sign of the times, a question to be answered by the mirror’s unblinking eye. Unnerving, but not distressing. Just another riddle to be solved.
The plan was a simple one, a Friday arrival, a Monday departure for Mike. But the world, a contrary beast, had other ideas. A temporary reprieve, a stay of execution, a day to search for the elusive thing called a job. He must find one, he must. The urgency hangs in the air, a thick fog.
And Bill, a whirlwind of motion, a blur of cars and children. He came on Saturday, a brief respite, an hour of sleep, a moment of peace. A good thing, a needed thing. He did the same today, a quick stop, but without the sleep. I told him Mike was in the crib, a strange and unsettling image, a puzzle without a solution. I saw the question in his eyes, the furrow of his brow. He will scratch his head, he will wonder, but he will not ask.
The office air is a shifting tide, a constant ebb and flow of heat and cold. I sit at my desk, a frozen statue, my cardigan a second skin. Then the warmth comes, a sudden rush, and I shed the wool, only to shiver once more.
Thursday. The goal. The promised land. A simple thing, a finish line to a race I did not choose. But the ambitious career plan, a great and terrible beast, looms in the distance. The agency wants a first draft, a single thing, a word on the page, a ghost of a dream.
The night’s repast, a simple thing, penne pesto and chicken. A special sauce for Mike, a simple act of kindness, a small rebellion against the pesto. The leftovers, a salty memory of a meal, a strange and unsettling change.
Sleep, a distant shore, eluded me. I tossed and turned, a ship on a stormy sea. Bill’s radio, a chattering demon, squawked every fifteen minutes, a chorus of talk radio nonsense. I may have broken it. I may have silenced the beast. I will buy him a new one, but only if he asks.
The world outside, a different beast. The smell of weed, once a shocking intruder, is now a constant companion, a familiar ghost in the air. I am getting used to it, I suppose. The world, it seems, is a series of smells and sounds and broken things. And I, I am a part of it all.