A nice spring day which I am hesitant to mention lest things go awry. That is always a possibility. I got to the fruit stand and adjusted the shades which made a difference. And as the sun moved, as the earth moved, I readjusted the shades so that things will appear brighter, luminous wise.
Quick confession. On my way from one fruit stand to another fruit stand, I visited a dispensary that Jimmy Chile recommended. I have gone there a few times already and was generally satisfied. Yesterday’s visit was more of the same with a different product, which I enjoyed last night and am pleasantly feeling the after effects this morning.
It feels like a throwback to the way things used to be, not knowing if what Marcus or Jesse or Poncho, my Rasta bredren, was indica or sativa since those terms existed but were never used, at least not by us. Maybe they would say that one week it was very mellow or the next week was a bit energetic.
The mellow would be indica and the energetic would be sativa. I always go for the indica as I do not need stimulation, especially near bedtime. So, I am happily hungover, everything is pleasantly fuzzy around the edges and I am OK with that.
Mike falls asleep at the drop of a hat after eating dinner. After his hot dogs, he stretched out on the couch and within minutes, he was snoring. At one point, I had to wake him up to let him know he was snoring. Bill was calling from on the road and could hear Mike in the background.
Marcus just walked by, moody as ever, looking at his phone, baseball cap pointing up from his forehead.
He has not been pleasant to be around, so I will do my best to keep my distance. He is eating his Chik a Fil just a few feet away from. Marcus knows of the boycott and does not care which is fine, it is his prerogative.
The day is now halfway done. I plan on eating ruit this afternoon. I am looking at a banana and an orange. Banana is first, orange will be later, I’ve done this menu plan previously and it is just enough to get me home. Mike is at my apartment and will return to his crib this evening to make it hospitable for his beloved Wade.
A lovely springtime lunch I’m walking around the Chelsea flat iron area. On my walk I thought I saw my former Algerian supervisor Lurlene Lumbago. I admit I did something rotten 7 years ago after they let me go and even confessed to it on Fesshole on what used to be Twitter.
It was such an underhanded thing that they were taking a back and would not post it where other people post various things that are not good or potentially embarrassing. This was beyond the pale. And I did it knowing that she had so much karmic that attached and I added to it which increased my karmic debt. Not very smart, not very kind, and I look back with regret.
The Google Gemini rewrite as a Jack Kerouac essay
The morning is a golden chime of spring, man, a nice spring day so beautiful I’m almost hesitant to even mention it—you know how it goes, you say the words aloud and the whole fragile dome of the afternoon might go awry, shatter into a thousand pieces of bad luck. That is always a possibility on this spinning dirt ball.
I got to the fruit stand, the fruit bright like tropical eyes under the Jersey sun, and I adjusted the shades. It made a difference, yes. And as the sun moved, as the great holy wheel of the earth moved, I reached up and readjusted those shades again so that things would appear brighter—luminous-wise, ecstatic-wise, glowing with the secret juice of the world.
A quick confession now, a confession for the jazz-hours of the soul: on my way from one fruit stand to another fruit stand, walking the cracked asphalt lines of America, I visited a dispensary that Jimmy Chile recommended. I’ve gone there a few times already, a seeker at the counter, generally satisfied with the green mysteries they sell. Yesterday’s visit was more of the same but with a different product entirely—a sweet, heavy smoke I enjoyed last night, and now I’m pleasantly feeling the long, slow after-effects this morning.
It feels like a wild throwback to the way things used to be in the old days, the midnight days, when you never knew if what Marcus or Jesse or Poncho—my Rasta bredren from the streetcorners of time—was indica or sativa. Those terms existed in some botanical dictionary somewhere, sure, but they were never used, at least not by us, the holy goofniks of the night. Maybe they would just look at you with heavy eyes and say that one week the weed was very mellow, or the next week it was a bit energetic.
The mellow would be indica, of course, and the energetic would be sativa. I always go for the indica, man, because I do not need any more stimulation in this roaring mind of mine, especially not near bedtime when the ghosts come out. So here I am, happily hungover, everything pleasantly fuzzy and blurred around the edges like an old photograph of San Francisco, and I am OK with that. I am completely OK.
Then there’s Mike. Mike falls asleep at the drop of a hat the minute dinner is down the hatch. After his hot dogs—the great American sausage ritual—he stretched his long bones out on the couch and within minutes, boom, he was snoring, a low rhythm like a freight train crossing the Nebraska plains. At one point, the noise was so grand I had to wake him up just to let him know he was snoring. Right then, Bill was calling from somewhere out on the road—the endless, lonesome road—and he could hear Mike’s buzz-saw slumber through the receiver, miles and miles away.
Suddenly Marcus just walked by. Moody Marcus, dark as a rainy Tuesday, looking down at his phone, his baseball cap pointing straight up from his forehead like a radar dish for bad vibes. He has not been pleasant to be around lately, no sir, so I will do my best to keep my distance, to stay in my own private orbit. Right now he is eating his Chick-fil-A just a few feet away from me. Marcus knows of the political boycott, he knows the score, but he does not care, which is fine—it is his prerogative, his own mad trip.
The day is now halfway done, the clock ticking toward the evening jazz. I plan on eating fruit this afternoon, raw and sweet from the earth. I am looking at a banana and an orange sitting there like little gods. The banana is first, the orange will be later—I’ve done this exact menu plan previously, and it is just enough fuel to get me home across the city. Mike is still over at my apartment, but he will return to his own crib this evening to make it hospitable and clean for his beloved Wade. The endless coming and going of men in apartments.
Later, a lovely springtime lunch, and I’m walking, just walking, drifting around the Chelsea Flatiron area, the great stone prows of New York cutting through the afternoon heat. On my walk, my heart skipped—I thought I saw my former Algerian supervisor, Lurlene Lumbago.
Oh, the guilt! I admit I did something rotten seven years ago after they let me go from that gig. I even confessed to it later on Fesshole—on what used to be Twitter, that grand electronic shouting match. It was such a dark, underhanded thing I did that even the internet moderators were taken aback; they wouldn’t even post it where other people post their various sins and embarrassments. This was beyond the pale, man. It was low down. And I did it knowing she already had so much heavy karmic baggage attached to her soul, and I went ahead and added to it anyway, which only succeeded in increasing my own karmic debt to the universe.
Not very smart. Not very kind. And now, walking these bright Chelsea streets with the indica buzz fading in my hair, I look back with nothing but regret, regret, regret.