Sunday afternoon 3:11 July 6th I am in North Bergen in the midst of a bike ride. Just got off the phone with my sister and her son. It was quite nice. I was about to call her back and tell her how all my bicycle, enthusiasm, or exercises, or whatever, are mainly her doing from taking me out for bike rides on weekend afternoons back in the ’70s when she was living in Lodi.
Then I decided not to call her and say that because that would be two feeding the ironic machine of. Yeah, the last thing he said to her before he was hit by a truck while riding his bicycle was that it was all her fault that he left. So we go bike riding. And that would be ironic as those were the last words that I posted, and if somebody looks at my phone, it’s like “Did you see what he wrote at 313 on July 6th?”
Just some goofing off.
I am a cheeky bastard.
Monday afternoon 1:27 p.m. July 7th I am at my spot outside my building smoking my mini cigar. It’s warm in the shade. Hot if you’re in the sun. Mike went home this morning. Had some things to do with regards to Jeff Bezos, so we parted ways at the path station. I made sure he got on the proper train at the proper platform and I rode on to 14th Street.
He keeps missing. Keeps keeps missing phone calls and texts and whatnot since he has a crap phone and a crap plan but we are able to figure it out despite Bill telling him not to call me at work. He’s called me quite a bit this morning. Each time more frustrated than the one before.
I told him to follow the instructions I sent about removing restricted phone calls from his phone. Basically, if you don’t recognize the number, don’t answer it. But he’s in the position where he’s going to get a phone number from someone he doesn’t know. That’s with regard to Jeff Bezos. So that goes on. He climbs the walls and I get the phone call
It seems to have worked out. He had his phone interview and now he’s in another waiting stage.
Bill is somewhere in New England driving some people around. I do not know his itinerary in the area, and if I did, I wouldn’t be sharing it on this here blog.
My major accomplishment for the day is buying a battery for my watch. If I brought the watch to a Swatch store, they would replace the battery for free. But since there ain’t no Swatch store around here, I have to do it myself. Other than that, it’s been a quiet day.
Marcus came in and insulted me in his usual manner, to which I responded, “Girl”.
He is up at the old place where I had worked previously as is Jimmy Chile.
It does not seem that Mike will be returning back to Hoboken tonight, which is a lonely plus. But I wouldn’t mind the solitude, so it is good having him around. There is a gap and some things that we discuss and enjoy. He gets so wound up in his phone constantly constantly constantly looking at conspiracy videos and AI imagery which he might believe is true and I most certainly dispelled.
I asked Gemini to rewrite as a Jack Kerouac essay and it did
Only Yesterday
Sunday afternoon, 3:11, July 6th, and I’m here, North Bergen, the asphalt shimmering, the sun a hot eye in the sky, in the midst of a bike ride, the wheels spinning, the wind a whisper in my ears, and just got off the phone with my sister, her voice a familiar tune, and her son, his young voice, a new melody, and it was nice, yeah, it was quite nice, a moment of connection across the wires, a thread holding us to the world. And I was about to call her back, the thought a sudden flash, a bright idea, to tell her, to confess, how all this bicycle enthusiasm, this exercise, this whatever it is, it’s mainly her doing, her ghost in the machine, from those bike rides, those long, sun-dappled afternoons back in the Seventies, when she was living in Lodi, a distant memory, a golden haze.
Then I decided not to, the thought fading, a shadow, not to call her and say that, because that, that would be too, too feeding the ironic machine, the grinding gears of fate, the dark humor of the universe. Yeah, the last thing he said to her, the very last words, before he was hit by a truck, a roaring beast of metal, while riding his bicycle, was that it was all her fault, all her damn fault, that he left, that he went out, that he rode. And that, that would be ironic, a cruel twist, as those were the last words I posted, typed into the ether, and if somebody, some curious soul, looks at my phone, they’ll see it, like, “Did you see what he wrote at 3:13 on July 6th?”
Just some goofing off, a moment of whimsy, a cosmic joke. I am, I admit it, a cheeky bastard.
Monday afternoon, 1:27 p.m., July 7th, and I’m at my spot, my familiar perch outside my building, the concrete warm beneath me, smoking my mini cigar, the smoke a thin blue ribbon curling into the air. It’s warm in the shade, a comfortable warmth, but hot, oh, hot if you’re in the sun, the sun a hammer striking the pavement. Mike, he went home this morning, his journey continuing, had some things to do, he said, with regards to Jeff Bezos, the unseen hand, the digital overlord, so we parted ways, a handshake, a nod, at the PATH station, the underground labyrinth. I made sure, yeah, I made sure he got on the proper train, the right platform, no wrong turns, and I rode on to 14th Street, the city rushing by, a blur of faces and buildings.
He keeps missing, keeps, keeps missing phone calls and texts and whatnot, a constant struggle, since he’s got a crap phone, he says, a broken connection, and a crap plan, the cheapest of the cheap, but we are able, somehow, to figure it out, to bridge the gap, despite Bill, his voice a warning, telling him not to call me at work. He’s called me quite a bit this morning, his voice rising, each time more frustrated than the one before, a rising tide of exasperation. I told him, I tried to tell him, to follow the instructions I sent, about removing restricted phone calls from his phone, a simple solution, basically, if you don’t recognize the number, don’t answer it. But he’s in a position, a tricky spot, where he’s going to get a phone number from someone he doesn’t know, a stranger’s voice, that’s with regard to Jeff Bezos, the unseen hand again. So that goes on, the dance continues, he climbs the walls, his anxiety a tangible thing, and I get the phone call, the familiar ring.
It seems to have worked out, the chaos settling, the storm passing. He had his phone interview, a hurdle cleared, and now he’s in another waiting stage, the purgatory of anticipation. Bill, he’s somewhere in New England, a distant figure, driving some people around, his itinerary unknown, a mystery wrapped in a riddle, and if I did know, I wouldn’t be sharing it, no, not on this here blog, this public square.
My major accomplishment for the day, the shining star of my afternoon, is buying a battery for my watch, a small victory. If I brought the watch to a Swatch store, they would replace the battery for free, a gesture of goodwill. But since there ain’t no Swatch store around here, no convenient haven, I have to do it myself, a solitary task. Other than that, it’s been a quiet day, the hours drifting by, a gentle current.
Marcus came in, his usual entrance, and insulted me in his usual manner, a familiar sting, to which I responded, simply, “Girl,” a single word, a deflecting shield. He is up at the old place, the familiar haunt where I had worked previously, a ghost of my past, as is Jimmy Chile, another echo. It does not seem that Mike will be returning back to Hoboken tonight, which is a lonely plus, a bittersweet freedom. But I wouldn’t mind the solitude, no, I embrace it, so it is good having him around, his presence a comfort. There is a gap, a space between us, and some things that we discuss and enjoy, shared moments, shared laughter. He gets so wound up, so consumed in his phone, constantly, constantly, constantly looking at conspiracy videos, the dark corners of the internet, and AI imagery, the fabricated realities, which he might believe is true, his mind open to all possibilities, and I, I most certainly dispelled, tried to dispel, the illusions, the manufactured truths.