Do I think too much? Do I not think enough? It’s the endless question that pops up time and again. It is July 8th 2025. The temperature is about 93° and it probably feels like 99.99 °.
I’ve been busy and the time has been flying by or not. Flying but gliding by that seems more like it.
I slept well and I woke up well and I got to the apartment well and I brought the pasta and pesto and chicken that I made on Friday to work today. I added the pesto sauce last night since I had it on the side in case Mike wanted it but he did not want it.
So it stayed until today and last night talking to Mike on the phone I was reminded of it and so I made the pesto sauce last night. Put it on the pesto and put it on the pasta and the chicken. Put it back in the fridge and just finished it about an hour ago and it was as good. Oh no! It wasn’t as good as it was the other day but it was good nonetheless
Bill is in New England. Mike is at his crib. Everything I do is to keep it off the lid. I don’t know what that means. It was an attempt at rap I suppose or an attempt at rhyming. Not too much can be expected today as it is quite hot out.
I know I have a bottle of ice water next to me today. I’m not sure whether or not that will be enough. I really should make an effort to be ambivalent to Marcus when he comes in in the morning.
It wasn’t so bad today. He saw the book I got on by John Savage and went to pick it up and saw that that it was an LGBT book. He sort of dropped it like a hot potato and I said too many big words in it and he said well I have an IQ and I interrupted to say “look out everybody. He’s going to talk about his IQ”.
Most people with high IQs don’t talk about their high IQs. As far as I know. I tested myself a while back and I did have a relatively high IQ. Although I don’t know the validity of the test. Perhaps I should take it again some other time but just not right now.
It is a scorcher today and the office is nicely air-conditioned. I don’t think it was this bad back in the day in the ’80s when I would wander around Manhattan on summer days. Where did I have the time? I’m sure I was working but where?
In any event, I enjoyed myself down in SoHo which was on the cusp of being turned into a shopping mall. I specifically think of meeting up with Rand going to Sohozat and listening to the TomTom Club’s second record on my Walkman in the hot sun and I was more than likely dressed in black so that was my thing back then.
Last night I watched a documentary about Merce Cunningham, which featured John Cage. It makes sense since they were partnered for years, and Cage’s music fit perfectly with Cunningham’s choreography. I read John Cage’s book, ‘Silence’ and it changed my life somewhat. It opened a door to John Cage’s philosophy, which affects and influences me 40 years later.
5 minutes to Hoboken
I asked Gemini AI to rewrite as William S. Burroughs and it did.
The humid air hung like a shroud, thick and trembling. July 8th, 2025. The city exhaled a collective sweat. Ninety-three degrees. Feels like ninety-nine point ninety-nine. Each breath a viscous drag. The question, an insect burrowing under the skin: *Too much thought? Not enough?* An endless loop, a broken tape.
—
Time. A trick of the light. Not flying, no. Gliding. A slow-motion fall through a dream. Slept well. Woke well. Reached the apartment well. A ritual of wellness, a conjuring. Pasta, pesto, chicken. Friday’s ghost, resurrected. Pesto, held captive in a separate container, awaiting its release. Mike, the unwitting oracle, his voice on the phone, a distant bell, a signal. *Pesto*. Last night. A midnight anointing. The green slick, coating the pasta, clinging to the chicken. Back in the cold, dark maw of the fridge. Consumed an hour ago. Not as good as the first communion. But good. Good enough.
—
Bill, a phantom in New England. Mike, holed up in his crib. Everything, a frantic dance to “keep it off the lid.” The words, a jumble, a failed rap, a stuttering rhyme. Meaning, a mirage in the heat haze. Nothing can be expected today. The heat, a blunt instrument.
—
Ice water. A single bottle, a meager defense against the encroaching inferno. Not enough. Never enough. Marcus. A name whispered, a shadow anticipated. Tomorrow. Ambivalence. A practiced indifference. A shield.
—
He saw the book. John Savage. A trigger. Picked it up. The words, “LGBT,” emblazoned, a brand. Dropped it. A hot potato, sizzling. “Too many big words,” I offered. His retort, a boast, a preening display: “I have an IQ.” I cut him off, the words a scalpel: “Look out, everybody. He’s going to talk about his IQ.” The truly intelligent, they don’t speak of such things. A silent understanding. My own test, a distant memory. The numbers, a fleeting validation. Validity. A slippery concept. Perhaps another time. Not now.
—
A scorcher. The office, a refrigerated sarcophagus. A stark contrast to the ’80s. Manhattan summers. Where did the time go? The work, a blur. SoHo, a memory. A cusp. Morphing into a mall, a sterile consumer purgatory. Rand. Sohozat. TomTom Club’s second record. Walkman. The hot sun. Black. Always black. A uniform. A statement.
—
Merce Cunningham. Last night. The documentary unspooled. John Cage. Inseparable. Their lives entwined, a twisted vine. Cage’s music, a perfect counterpoint to Cunningham’s movements. *Silence*. The book. A doorway. A jolt. Forty years. His philosophy, a current, still flowing. A silent influence. An echo. Always.