As luck would have it.
Tuesday, August 26th, 2025. I believe my sister has made it to Europe or is at least on her way with her husband; I haven’t heard anything otherwise.
It’s a Tuesday day two of a four-day work week, which means it’s going exceedingly slow. I am probably going to have halal food for lunch, which means I should probably go out and get some right now and then work through it.
Mike starts his new job today, 11:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. That is what he signed up for, that is what he seems to be prepared for. I hope he works it.
It’s a beautiful summer day, although I’m inside looking at the outside blue sky. Last night, Bill and I watched about 2 hours of John Oliver, or close to it at least. We enjoyed it greatly, and he went to bed. I spoke to Mike on the phone, who asked how I was sleeping lately, and I was hesitant to say anything for fear that my sleep would be altered by fate, and sure enough, that seems to have happened. I did not sleep as well as I had wanted to; perhaps tonight will be better. I did go to sleep about half an hour later than I have been, so it could all be my fault, not necessarily the fault of fate.
I finally finished the book The Secret Public by Jon Savage. As usual, it was very good since Jon Savage is a very good writer, erudite in the best sense. Now I am reading Talking Heads at the New York Scene That Transformed Rock by Jonathan Gould. I heard about it on the Rocks Back Pages podcast, and I didn’t actually finish that, but it seems to be okay for now. Talking Heads was quite one of the top bands in my life back in the day, and perhaps they still are somehow.
I have only met David Byrne, though I do recall meeting Jerry Harrison once, and he showed up at Maxwell’s, and I sort of pigeonholed him into trying to get me a job with Gary Kurfirst, who happens to be the manager of Talking Heads. Needless to say, nothing came of it. So brazen was I in my younger days…
Why do 4-day work weeks seem to take twice as long to get through? So I’m going to head out in a few minutes and get some halal food in the corner of University and 14th Street. I did it last week, and it’s quite good for less than $10. I do hope it was chicken though, hahaha. And it was $10 today.
For me, Andy Warhol haunts this area since two of his factories were on Union Square, he used to get sandwiches at a place that no longer exists called Brownies I still feel his presence, although it could be gas.
Not much else to report, I’m heading out in a few and coming back in a few. Looking to get my food, I saw a nanny interacting with a child in their charge. The child had a wonderful smile on his face, and then maybe think of all the times parents just walked down the street with their kids looking at their phones and ignoring their children, oh what a nightmare this will be…
Gemini AI rewrite as a letter from James Baldwin
*New York City*
*August 26, 2025*
My dearest,
I am here on this Tuesday, two days into a four-day week, and the time moves with the terrible, slow rhythm of a fever dream. The news has it that your sister has made her way to Europe, or is at least on the path there. I hope she has arrived safely, and that the sea and sky have been kind to her and her husband. I have heard nothing to the contrary, and in this world, that is sometimes the best news one can receive.
I am contemplating what passes for lunch in this city—some halal chicken from a corner cart, a small mercy of a meal that costs a pittance. I should go now, before the day’s work swallows me whole, before I forget the simple pleasure of walking out into this heat.
The day is a gorgeous one, a rare blue in the summer sky, but I am like a ghost, trapped on the inside looking out. It feels a cruel sort of irony. Last night, I sat with Bill, and we laughed at the television. It was a reprieve, a small shield against the ceaseless troubles of this world, and he soon went to his rest. I, on the other hand, was tormented by a simple conversation I had with Mike. He asked me how I was sleeping. I, fool that I am, was afraid to tell him the truth, for fear that in speaking of my good rest, I would jinx it. And of course, in this city of a thousand small curses, it was so. I slept poorly, a fitful, shallow sleep. Perhaps it was not fate, after all, but simply that I went to bed a half-hour later than I ought to have. A small thing, but small things have a way of becoming large in the darkness of the night.
I finished a book on the new wave, on the secret life of punk. It was a fine thing, the kind of book that reminds you that some writers know a thing or two. I’ve started a new one now on the **Talking Heads**, a band that meant something to me once, and still does. You know, I once cornered one of them, Jerry Harrison, at a club. I was so young then, so brazen, I was trying to get a job with their manager. Of course, nothing came of it, but it reminds me of the boy I was—that strange, desperate creature.
I tell you, these four-day weeks feel twice as long as the old five-day ones. It is a kind of trap. Still, I am going to get that food. The place is at the corner of University and 14th Street. It’s a good deal. It’s hard to believe this small corner of the world was once haunted by the ghost of **Andy Warhol**. You can still feel his presence, though I do wonder sometimes if it is his ghost or simply the gas I’ve been afflicted with.
I saw a nanny today, a beautiful moment in the street. She was with a young boy, and he had the most glorious smile on his face. It made me think of all the parents who walk with their children, their heads bent over their phones, blind to the world around them, blind to the people they made. What kind of nightmare will that be? To walk through a life with your head in the sand, ignoring the beautiful, terrifying, heartbreaking miracle you have made. It is a thought that will not leave me.
I am going now.
Yours, as ever,
James