It’s Juneteenth and it’s a Friday. A federal holiday means it’s a day off, a three day weekend. I rarely write when I am off of work yet here I am. It’s been a lazy day. I slept well last night. Bill and I watched Ahmir Thompson aka Questlove’s latest documentary about Earth Wind and Fire.
I knew it would be entertaining. Earth Wind and Fire were a part of the soundtrack of my growing up. To me, Maurice White always seemed to be a goody goody compared to his peers back then. He certainly does not come off as such. A few kids with different women, his business sense of dealing with the band were revealed to be less than appealing.
But the songs are still timeless. And I admit while I had grown tired of hearing September over and over, it’s still a great song and when it’s played in the documentary, it proves to be a salve.
Mike’s been doing his thing in Chilltown, I woke up to find his videos sent to me, erotic for lack of a better word. They’re for the collection, I tell myself. I know the thousands of followers Mike has, will eat it up or would if they had the opportunity. I myself rarely look at Mike’s menu these days, like I said they’re for the collection.
Bill had a tooth extracted yesterday and is paying the price. I’ve had it done numerous times, the last time in 2017. Now I have 5 teeth left in my head and I’m happy with the prosthetics that occupy the space most of the day. They fit just right and the upper denture is mainly held in by suction, no need for glue or adhesive pads.
I did use those initially until I realized there was no need. It’s all good. I don’t wear the upper when I go cycling. The saliva between the denture and the roof of my mouth get bothersome so I go without and it seems to work just fine.
Most of the time when I am at home the upper is in a cup of water, in my mouth when I am eating. I too shoot videos, not erotic like Mike, and most of those show me smoking a cigar without the upper denture. Does anyone notice? I don’t know, no one has ever said anything.
And I just made some egg salad for Bill since soft food are the way for him to go for the time being since his mouth is still sensitive to chewing food. He said it was good. I expect to be doing more of the same for the next week or so.
Mike planned to hang out with Bill and me on Sunday for Father’s Day, but he was told of Folsom East, a leather/kink street festival in west Chelsea. I had gone a few times, a couple of times with Bill, including one time when my dearly departed for Nevada friend Pedro joined us.
I went with my truly dearly departed friend Juan as well. It wasn’t really my scene and I preferred to hang out in a pub a few blocks away drinking Guinness.
So this year Mike is going, but on his own. I’m sure he’ll have a good time being the budding leather man he is. Who knows? Maybe some of his thousands of followers will be there. I’ve gone back and forth in my head regarding joining him.
Of course, it always ends with ‘forget about it,’ though last night the idea did come through loud and strong. Then I went to bed.
The Google Gemini rewrite as a Samuel Beckett essay
Friday. Juneteenth. The state decrees a pause, so the machinery halts. A three-day weekend. They call it a holiday, meaning the time must be killed differently. Usually, the pen remains dry on such days. Silence is the preference. Yet here I am, scratching at the void. A lazy day, they say. As if the other days were filled with momentum.
I slept. The mind went dark, then returned. No change. Bill and I watched a luminous screen. Ahmir Thompson—who calls himself Questlove, as if a name could anchor a soul—showing shadows of Earth, Wind and Fire.
The soundtrack of the youth. Another illusion. I once thought Maurice White a saint, a goody-goody. A comforting lie. The documentary strips the paint. Children scattered across different mothers, a cold sharpness in the ledger books. The human business. Repellent, predictable.
And yet, the songs remain, fixed in the air like monuments to nothing. I thought I was weary of *September*. Infinitely weary. But it played, and for a moment, it was a salve. A brief numbing of the wound.
From Chilltown, Mike sends his dispatches. I woke to find them. Erotic, for lack of a better word. Words always lack. Images of the flesh, meant for the collection. I tell myself this: *for the collection*. He has thousands of followers. They wait, they consume, or they would if they could. I rarely look at the menu now. It sits in the dark of the memory drive. A collection of shapes.
Bill sits across from me, paying the toll. A tooth extracted yesterday. The jaw remembers the iron. I know the ledger well; I have been hollowed out numerous times. The last extraction was 2017.
Five teeth remain in my skull. Five. The rest is space, occupied by pink acrylic and porcelain. A precise geometry of suction. The upper plate holds fast to the roof of the mouth without the sticky pastes, the adhesive pads. I tried them once. A messy business. No need. It is all good. Or as good as things can be when one is falling apart in sections.
When I cycle into the wind, I leave the upper plate behind. The saliva pools between the plastic and the palate—a stagnant, bothersome moisture. Better to ride empty-mouthed. Gums to the air. It works.
At home, the teeth reside in a cup of water. A quiet life in a glass. I only summon them to chew. I, too, record videos for the void. Not like Mike’s. No eroticism here. Just an old face smoking a cigar, the upper jaw collapsed inward, toothless. Does anyone notice the gap? The missing structure? No one speaks. Perhaps they see nothing. Perhaps there is nothing to see.
I mashed eggs with mayonnaise for Bill. Soft food for the sensitive flesh. He chewed, he swallowed, he said it was good. A small mercy. I will repeat this ritual tomorrow. And the day after. A week of soft food. The repetition sustains us.
Sunday is Father’s Day. Mike had planned to appear. Then came the rumor of Folsom East. Chelsea. A street filled with leather and skin, chains and constraints. I went there once, twice, when the legs were stronger. Bill came. Pedro came too, before he departed for Nevada, before he departed altogether. And Juan, truly departed. Dead, to be plain.
It was never the right coordinates for me. I preferred to sit three blocks away, in the dim light of a pub, watching the black weight of a pint of Guinness settle in the glass.
So Mike will go alone. A budding leatherman, stepping into his custom. Perhaps his thousands of digital followers will materialize on the asphalt. I turned the idea over in my skull. Go. Don’t go. Join him. Stay.
The debate ended where it always ends: *Forget about it.*
Though last night, the impulse flared up, loud and unbidden. A sudden noise in the dark. Then I went to bed, and the light went out.