Monday, July 21st, 2025, on my lunch break once again in my usual spot.
All in all, it was a good weekend, except Friday and Saturday. I did not sleep well and woke up in no mood. Mike had never really seen that before. Bill knew it or recognized the mood. I was not communicative at all. Mike and I went to ShopRite for grocery shopping, with me not saying much at all. I came home, and Bill was out. I took a 90-minute nap, which gave me the six or seven hours of sleep that I needed before, and I woke up feeling human once again, much to Mike’s relief.
And we hung out, did some things, and I wound up making dinner. Then, going for a nice walk, we took the elevator up to Congress Street from 9th Street in Hoboken and then walked down the viaduct, which Mike had never walked before. Then over to 14th Street Pier and then a walk back home. Overall, Mike and I walked 8 miles that day, that Saturday.
Saturday night, we didn’t do much of anything, just listened to music and talked, actually, which was pretty good. Michael enjoyed it and I enjoyed it. Bill came home later than expected, at which point I was asleep and Mike was asleep. I was in bed. Mike was on the couch.
The next day was Sunday. I did my bike ride about 14 miles with Liberty State Park in full effect. And most people were well behaved. After my break, visiting the tree at the halfway point, I was feeling quite nice, quite mellow thanks to the herb, and then the rest of the ride had me complimenting people and being supportive up to a point.
I was home earlier than usual because I started earlier than usual. Helped Mike out with some photography which was very good he took some pictures of me and it was all satisfactory.
After that, we watched a few episodes of Daredevil, which were a lot darker than I remembered if I had seen them before, and last night I was not sure whether or not I had seen them before.
Mike and I left at the same time this morning. He was going back to his crib and me going off to work Bill stayed home.
And work is not bad I’m still enjoying the place that I work at today we have a musician that Mike has heard of and I had heard of. But Mike really knows who he is whereas I just know the name couldn’t identify this song and I’m reluctant to post his name here should anyone do a search for exam in this pops up why would I do that?
It’s another beautiful day, quite like Friday, sunny, warm no humidity. Walking to work in this beautiful morning, it does bring forth feelings of happiness and perhaps joy There’s also the warning attached that “hey, remember that other beautiful morning 24 years ago?”
I mentioned that to Jimmy chili today, and he agreed that it was a beautiful morning, so not what they used to be because of what happened 24 years ago.
Talking Heads stay hungry
Compliments galore dispensed by me
Hey Gemini AI, what if Nora Ephron wrote…
Ah, Monday. Or, as I like to think of it, the inevitable consequence of Friday. Here I am again, perched at my usual lunchtime spot, contemplating the weekend that was. And wasn’t.
Let’s start with the good, shall we? Or rather, the not-so-good that became good. Friday and Saturday, for instance. Those were the sort of days where sleep, that elusive mistress, decided to play hard to get. The result? A mood. Not just any mood, mind you, but *the* mood. The kind where words feel like heavy stones in your mouth, and even the simple act of grocery shopping becomes a silent, solemn pilgrimage through the aisles of ShopRite. Poor Mike, bless his heart, had never quite encountered this particular shade of me before. Bill, on the other hand, the seasoned observer of my various meteorological shifts, seemed to recognize the atmospheric pressure dropping.
The grand cure for such an affliction? A nap. Not just any nap, but a glorious ninety-minute plunge into the kind of deep, restorative unconsciousness that leaves you feeling, as if by some miraculous act of human alchemy, human again. Mike’s palpable relief was almost comical.
And then, just like that, the weekend began to unfold. We pottered about, as one does, and somehow, I found myself in the kitchen, conjuring dinner. Later, there was a walk. A proper walk. The kind that starts with an elevator ride up to Congress Street from 9th, a decidedly urban ascent, and then a wander down the viaduct, a path Mike had yet to discover. We ambled over to 14th Street Pier, the city lights shimmering on the water, before making our way back home. Eight miles, all told. Who needs a gym when you have Hoboken?
Saturday night was a quieter affair. Music, conversation. The sort of easy communion that truly fills the spaces between people. Mike and I, content in our bubble, eventually drifted off. Bill, ever the night owl, arrived later, finding us both blissfully unconscious – me in bed, Mike, ever the gentleman, on the couch.
Sunday dawned, a new day, a new me. The bike called, 14 miles strong, through Liberty State Park, which was, I’m pleased to report, in “full effect.” And mostly, the populace behaved. After a brief respite by the obligatory halfway-point tree, a certain mellowness, perhaps aided by a whisper of herbal persuasion, settled in. The rest of the ride was a study in polite encouragement, a symphony of “good jobs” and “you’re doin’ greats,” until, of course, the limits of human endurance (mine) were reached.
Home earlier than usual, a productive morning under my belt. Mike needed help with his photography, and I, ever the muse, found myself in front of the lens. The results were, dare I say, satisfactory. Then, the inevitable gravitational pull of the couch and the television. A few episodes of *Daredevil*, a show I vaguely recall, but now, upon re-watching, feels distinctly darker than I remember. Was it always this brooding? Or have I simply forgotten the nuances of superhero angst? The mind, it plays tricks.
This morning, Mike and I departed simultaneously – he to his “crib,” as he so charmingly calls it, and I to the relentless march of gainful employment. Bill, meanwhile, was granted the rare luxury of a Monday at home.
Work, surprisingly, isn’t bad. I’m still rather fond of the place. Today, for instance, we have a musician. Mike knows him. I know of him. The kind of person whose name rings a bell, but whose actual oeuvre remains a delightful mystery. And no, I won’t name him. Why tempt the digital gods of search engines into revealing my rather pedestrian tastes in music?
And then, there’s the day itself. Another one of those perfect, almost offensively beautiful days. Like Friday, but with a lingering sense of déjà vu. Sunny, warm, not a hint of humidity. Walking to work in such glorious conditions, one can’t help but feel a flicker of happiness, perhaps even joy. But then, the caveat. The whisper in the back of your mind: “Hey, remember that *other* beautiful morning, twenty-four years ago?”
I mentioned it to Jimmy Chile today. He agreed. A beautiful morning, yes, but not quite like they used to be. The ghosts of beautiful mornings past, it seems, linger longer than the humidity.