Scott Schmedes’ dream. I have not seen Scott in 49 years. We were class pals in 1976, but after graduation, I never saw him again. But there he was in my dream the other night, and he hadn’t changed much just an older version of what I remembered from 1976. I do hope he’s doing well. I’m sure he is.
I am at work now playing a Pet Shop Boys playlist, Left to My Own Devices is playing and I am remembering being in a car with Ulysses and driving from Queens to Manhattan to perhaps Secaucus, coming down from the night before, a few hours of twitchy sleep, and listening to the Trevor Horn production.
I am supposed to shoot photographs with Mike on Saturday, and I am looking at Saturday afternoon, and I am not sure if Mike is on the same time frame as I am, but we shall see. I have not communicated with him with regards to the time that I am thinking, 2:00 p.m. and I have no idea what he is thinking, as usual
It is a cloudy gray day this Wednesday, September 17th. There was the initial flush at work of requests cuz they have all been filled, so now we wait for the rest. Some of my guests have come in, so I’m guessing everything is going smoothly. I have even picked up some other things that were lying by the wayside from other people.
So the cloudy gray day has turned into a rainy gray day. The thing I’ve been doing at lunch time is going outside and enjoying a small cigar, not a mini cigar, but a small cigar, and I was hoping to do the same today. Looking east, it looks dry, but looking north, the window is coated with rain, and that has made the decision for me.
It’s not the end of the worl,d I will adapt as I generally do. Bill is driving people around in this weather, and I hope he’s very cautious and I know he is. I’m sitting at my desk listening to Paul McCartney. I suppose I can go elsewhere for lunch and sit somewhere else, but the most comfortable here, so here’s why I remain
I was thinking of Dais,y the woman I used to work with, when I had a job at Bratty McGrotty. She sent me a birthday greeting last week, and it was nice at I replied with it thank you and that’s it. I hope they’re treating her well at that hellhole, but I have no idea. I say listen to Paul McCartney, I am hearing some contemporary hip hop things, and as I wrote that, they stopped. And now Eminem is playing quite loudly and arrogantly as only Eminem can be.
Eminem drops off, Paul McCartney continues, and I am still sitting at my desk talking into my phone and dictating my notes, which I will edit later on tonight when I get home because that’s how I do things yo.
Sheff G and Sleepy Hallow are here with a crew of over a dozen. Nice guys mainly, but fans of L’Orange Merde it seems. So that’s like minus a million points for Slytherin.
Gemini ala Kerouac
Scott Schmedes’ dream, man, a ghost of a guy I haven’t seen in half a century, not since the last days of ’76 when we were just kids in class and then the great American hum swallowed us whole, and I never saw him again, but there he was in my dream the other night, same face, same soul, just a little older, a little closer to the great emptiness, ah, I hope he’s doing well, man, I know he is, he’s a good cat.
And now here at work, the Pet Shop Boys wailing out of the speakers, “Left to My Own Devices” a fever-dream anthem, and I’m back in the car with Ulysses, a frantic blur of Queens to Manhattan to maybe Secaucus, coming down off a night of twitchy sleep, that Trevor Horn production a holy sound, a prayer mumbled over the endless highway.
And Saturday’s coming, a great big question mark of a day, supposed to shoot photographs with Mike, but I’m looking at the afternoon and I’m not sure we’re on the same time, the same cosmic wavelength, I haven’t said a thing to him about my two o’clock idea and his mind, man, is a great big unreadable road map as usual.
It’s a gray Wednesday, September 17th, the world a vast cloud, and the first flush of work is done, the initial requests all answered, and now we sit in the silent hum of waiting for the next thing to break, my guests are in and it’s all smooth, I even picked up some of the broken pieces other people left lying by the wayside, a scavenger of lost moments.
And now the gray has turned to rain, a soft-spoken downpour on the glass, and there goes my lunchtime cigar, that small ritual, a holy sacrament of a little smoke in the afternoon sun, looking east it’s all dry, but the north window is a waterfall of rain, and the decision’s made for me by the hand of the universe.
Not the end of the world, just another bump on the great road, I will adapt as I always do, Bill is out there driving people around in this weather, a true road warrior, and I know he’s cautious, and I’m sitting at my desk listening to Paul McCartney, I could go somewhere else for lunch, to a different seat, but this one’s got a certain comfortable rhythm, a certain beat to it, so I stay, man, I stay right here.
I was thinking of Daisy, that girl I used to work with at that hellhole Bratty McGrotty, she sent me a birthday greeting last week, a nice little note from the past, I said thanks and that was that, hope they’re not treating her too bad in that place, and now McCartney’s gone, the music shifts, some hip hop pulse takes over, and just as I wrote that, they stopped and now it’s Eminem, loud and arrogant and full of himself, a shouting prophet of the urban jungle.
Eminem drops off, Paul McCartney returns, the world rights itself, and I’m still here at my desk, talking into my phone, dictating my notes to be edited later tonight, under the lamp, because that’s the way I do things, yo, and then Sheff G and Sleepy Hallow show up with their crew of a dozen, nice guys, man, but they’re fans of L’Orange Merde, and that’s like minus a million points for Slytherin, a bad score for the whole universe.