I just saw a man who looked like Arif Mardin talking to a man who looked like Jack Warden.
A day late and a dollar short.
Didn’t dictate it, did not write yesterday, thought about writing last night, but was not motivated enough
And here I am a day later. An attempt, I suppose. I’m not a slave to what I used to do, write every day 500 words, now I write when I want to, and I didn’t want to yesterday, although I should have, I didn’t.
I’m in an elevator running down, and it smells like perfume
Out on the street near the spot where I sit, but not sitting, standing. Bill was upstate New York on Monday, came back on Tuesday, and today, which is Wednesday, he is working, which is good. And he’s close to home in Carlstadt, New Jersey, at least that’s where he started from this morning.
I had chicken for lunch, which was good. First time for the restaurant, and I ordered online and they wanted me to tip, but I didn’t feel good tipping about it, something I haven’t had yet yea,h that rare moment of reason popped into my head.
I have an appointment at 3:30 to discuss something with a coworker named David. He’s going to Paris next week, and I need to cover for him while sitting at my desk half a mile away. Funny thing is, I’m usually apprehensive and anxious about these types of things but today I’m feeling like “hell, it’s no problem, I can do this”.
I did ask him to send me a schedule of things that might be delivered or arriving while he’s away, and he said that he would, so I’m sure we’ll discuss that.
I also spoke to the corporation or sent an email to the corporation that placed me at the fruit stand, asking them if holidays or what they call PTO in the biz, and be carried over to the next year, and I’m specifically thinking of one day next year, which would be January 2nd. I had to tell them that just in case they’re like no no no no.
Mike, who’s doing well financially, has been going crazy buying clothes right and left. I’ve been buying them and he’s been reimbursing me since his internet access is somewhat limited and his neighborhood is less than desirable for package deliveries, whereas mine is just fine.
He loves Psalm 23 and has it on his jerseys for the Dallas Cowboys and the New York Knicks, and he just put a leather jacket or a varsity jacket with leather sleeves, which seems sketchy, but we’ll find out, I suppose.
When he was over the weekend, I suggested that he buy a laptop, which is just as expensive as some of these items that he is buying. He is a skilled poet, and I do believe when he says he’s a very good playwright. He wrote what he wrote when he was incarcerated and put it on for his fellow incarcerated and some church folk. It seemed to go over well, and I explained that he should put it down on paper or at least digitally, so I’ll have it to work with and get moving. Also, to improve his typing skills, which are currently hunting and pecking.
It could only help in the work he does now, or a promotional opportunity should that arise at his present position.
Bill and I have discussed with Mike getting an affordable laptop. He does not need a printer and scanner at this moment, but an external hard drive could be a good thing for him
I had been using melatonin for the past couple of years, and when I did see a doctor a few years ago for a physical, he said I shouldn’t take it, and I just shrugged it off. I continued to use it. But yesterday I saw that melatonin use can lead to heart problems, and that was enough to get me to stop. So I stopped last night and still slept well. There are three other things that I do to go to sleep, and they seem to have done the job quite well. Technically, four things…
The job of this here blog or the discipline for this here blog was to write at least 500 words, and I believe in the past 20 minutes or so, I have surpassed 600 words. Actually, 700 words more or less.
Yesterday the temps dropped to the 30s, today or in the upper 40s, still a bit cold and damn but manageable as I sit outside now rather than stand where I usually do.
A co-worker mentioned that the weather is moody, which is an apt description.
A Google Gemini rewrite as a William S. Burroughs essay:
## 💥 The Naked Lunch of Now: Rewired Tape Loops and Phantom Faces
The splice hit me like a jolt of electroshock in the gut. Arif Mardin’s ghost, or a cheap approximation, leaning into the phantom glow of Jack Warden. Two faces swimming in the grey wash of a forgotten reel, talking, talking, talking—a low frequency hum of deals and decay. **A day late and a dollar short**. Always. The chronometer is busted, the currency is counterfeit.
Did not dictate. Did not write the black ink into the white void yesterday. Thought about it—the synaptic flicker of a story trying to clot—but the motivation needle stayed on zero. A flatline.
And here I am, twenty-four hours beyond the deadline, the clock a screaming bird. An attempt, I suppose. The old routine—500 words of forced march, daily discipline—that slave collar is off. I write when the junk-sickness of silence demands a fix. Yesterday, it didn’t. Though I *should* have. The ghost of **Should Have** is always riding shotgun.
The elevator cage descends, a stainless steel coffin smelling of cheap perfume. A floral masking agent for the stink of the city’s slow, mechanical death. **The smell of women’s secrets and burnt money.**
Out on the street now, near the usual junction. Not sitting. Standing, a vertical scream. Bill—he was upriver in New York State on Monday, a chemical blur. Back on Tuesday. Today, Wednesday, he’s working the grind, close to the root, Carlstadt, New Jersey—the coordinates of a temporary fix.
Chicken for lunch. First time for the place. Ordered online. The screen glowed with the demand for a **TIP**. A shakedown. I felt the rare, blinding flash of *reason*—a temporary immune response—and held the dollar back. I haven’t even *eaten* the stuff yet. The transaction is incomplete.
At 3:30, the co-worker named David. Paris next week. The great European flush. I have to cover his slot, half a mile away, chained to my desk. Usually, the apprehension hits like a brick. The old anxiety loop. Today: **”Hell, it’s no problem. I can do this.”** The sudden calm of the fully-dosed. Maybe the world has finally adjusted the frequency.
I asked him for the delivery schedule, the arrival manifest—the incoming data stream I need to process in his absence. He said he would send it. They all say they will.
I hit the Corporation—the syndicate that placed me at the fruit stand. Sent the cold email: **PTO/Holidays**. Can the residue be carried over? Specifically targeting January 2nd—a date in the future, a strategic point of resistance. Had to tell them *why*. Don’t want the *no-no-no-no* chorus.
Mike, swimming in dough, in the financial high-tide. He’s on a clothes-buying jag—a frantic accumulation of fabric. I buy it, he reimburses. His internet line is frayed, his neighborhood a drop zone for package snatchers. Mine is a secure perimeter.
He’s got the **Psalm 23** mantra—embroidered on Cowboys and Knicks jerseys. Now a varsity jacket: leather sleeves. **Sketchy**. The mark of a man trying to buy a new skin. We will observe the decay.
Last weekend, I tried to push the laptop fix. Just as much as the *things* he buys. He is a poet, a playwright. **He wrote the words in the hole**, put the play on for the incarcerated ghosts and the church visitors. It *went over well*. The crowd approved. I told him: **get the words down**. Digitalize the script. Get past the hunting-and-pecking of the keyboard. Improve the interface. It’s a survival skill. It will open the promotional gate in his current dead-end job.
Bill and I talked about the affordable machine for Mike. No need for the printer/scanner annex yet. But the external hard drive: **a clean slate, a portable memory bank**. Good.
The **Melatonin loop**. Years on the synthetic sleep. The doctor shrugged. I ignored him. Continued the slow dose. But yesterday, the data hit: **heart problems**. The news item—a tiny, lethal bullet. That was the cut-off point. I stopped last night. Still slept. There are three (no, technically *four*) other habits—the counter-rituals—that keep the ghost from the machine.
The discipline of this blog, this private tape recorder, was 500 words. I have surpassed the quota. 600. 700. The noise level is rising.
Yesterday, the temperature drop. The 30s. Today, upper 40s. Still cold. Manageable. I am sitting now, in the light, not standing in the shadow-spot.
A co-worker defined the weather: **Moody**.
An apt description. **The world is moody, and the mood is coming down.**