I need to remember to not listen to the first voice in my head when I wake up in the morning. This morning after a restless night, I emailed when I woke up that I was not feeling well. I sent it to Yancy and the counselor that set me up at the fruit stand.
Yancy was thankful and hoped that I would feel better. The counselor is on the west coast and was still asleep. Then I remembered I was participating in an LGBT panel for the agency this afternoon and had been preparing for it for a few weeks. I did not want to let them down.
I emailed that I would make it in after all, and Yancy advised against it. But my mind was made up, and I could not go back to sleep. I tried, I tossed, I turned but it was not going to happen so I made it to work 2 hours later than usual.
I showered and puttered about the apartment, Mike was sleeping. I effectively killed time between 8AM and 9AM. I walked up to Washington Street noticing more people out and about 2 hours that I usually see. The bagels were cooled so when I got mine, it was not a pile of greasy butter and dough which is what the bagels generally are when I get to my desk.
It is as quiet as I expected at the fruit stand. Whatever was going to happen happened yesterday. LGBT showtime is about an hour from now. Me and two other guys are talking heads regarding the March on Washington in April 1993. I’m sure it will go well. I am good at these things. Quick witted and off the cuff.
James Brown, 20 All Time Greatest Hits is playing. I admit I knew little about James Brown growing up. Perhaps it was really a case of ‘too black, too strong’. In the early 1980’s I bought a greatest hits compilation and that was more than likely my introduction. He wasn’t as sampled as he later became, and sampling hadn’t really occurred in 1982.
I did dub a cassette for my brother Frank. I missed James Brown at Skyline Studios in the 1990s by a few months. James Biondolillo told me all about the excitement of meeting the hardest working man in show business. As usual, I was late for the party. Time is crawling today. From food poisoning to mental health by way of Pepto Bismol I went to extraordinary lengths to show that I am a team player.
Also I did not want to take away any time from my personal time off routine. I reckon 2 hours might be better than 8 hours. Perhaps I was right. I don’t think I’ll know anything until the west coast wakes up and gets activated. Until then, here I am listening to James Brown’s Greatest HIts and watching the clock. After all it is a Thursday.
I’m on the street outside the fruit stand. I just participated in the LGBT panel discussion regarding the March on Washington on April 25th 1993. I was engaging, honest, open, and much to my surprise a little bit emotional.
Mainly about including people of color in the LGBT diaspora and how sometimes they are left out and it’s up to us to be more inclusive. How we have to keep fighting day by day sometimes hour by hour against people that would rather us not being around.
I think my emotions startled some people and it was a crowd of people from around the world so who knows where that will go if it goes anywhere? I am glad I have done it and will do it again if need be.
Google Gemini rewrite as an EM Forster essay
## The Morning Sentinel and the Panelled Room
One should never, I think, pay the slightest attention to the first voice that speaks when the curtains are drawn. It is a treacherous tenant, born of the night’s debris and the stale air of a restless pillow. This morning, it whispered of a malaise—a phantom indisposition—and, in a moment of muddled weakness, I allowed it to seize the pen. I dispatched missives to Yancy and to that distant counselor who oversees my post at the fruit stand, declaring myself unfit for the day’s commerce.
It was a mistake of the spirit.
Yancy, possessing that gentle patience one so often finds in the truly kind, offered his sympathies. The counselor, buffered by the three-hour grace of the Pacific, remained blissfully unaware in sleep. But as the light strengthened, the “inner check”—that quiet arbiter of duty—reminded me of the afternoon’s engagement: the LGBT panel. I had prepared for weeks; to absent oneself would not merely be a lapse in punctuality, but a failure of connection. And as we know, one must *only connect*.
I recanted my illness via a second volley of electronic mail. Yancy, ever cautious, advised rest, but the die was cast. Sleep had fled, chased away by the friction of a conscience in revolt. I tossed, I turned, I wrestled with the sheets, and finally, I rose.
—
The hour between eight and nine was a curious interlude of “puttering.” Mike slept on, undisturbed by my quiet domestic skirmish. When I finally ventured onto Washington Street, two hours behind my usual rhythm, the world wore a different face. The crowd was thicker, the pulse of the pavement more insistent. Even the bagel—that reliable, if often greasy, staple—had benefited from the delay. It had cooled to a dignified firmess, spared the indignity of the molten butter-pool that usually greets me at my desk.
At the fruit stand, the stillness is absolute. Whatever drama the week held was spent yesterday. Now, I sit in the quiet, awaiting the “showtime” of the panel, where I and two others shall serve as “talking heads” regarding the Great March of April ’93. I do not fear the podium. I have always found a certain ease in the spontaneous; the quick wit is a sturdy shield.
To pass the time, I have summoned the ghost of Mr. James Brown. His *20 All-Time Greatest Hits* fills the air. I confess, in my youth, his “too black, too strong” vibrato remained a foreign country to me. It was not until the early eighties that I secured a compilation and crossed the border into his rhythm. In 1982, the world had not yet begun to “sample” and dissect his genius into a thousand digital shards. I remember dubbing a cassette for my brother, Frank—a small bridge of melody between us. I missed meeting the man himself at Skyline Studios by a mere matter of months; I arrived, as is my habit, just as the party was thinning out.
—
I have been a team player today, moving from the brink of “food poisoning” to the heights of “mental fortitude” by way of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. Perhaps it was a desire to protect my personal leave, or perhaps it was simply the realization that two hours of lost time is a smaller tragedy than eight. I shall not know the verdict until the West Coast “activates” and the wires begin to hum.
But now, the panel is over. I stand in the street, the air fresh against my face.
It went well—better, perhaps, than the intellect intended. I was honest, I was open, and—to my own astonishment—I was moved. I found myself speaking of the LGBT diaspora, and of those people of color who are so often left standing on the periphery of our common history. I spoke of the necessity of inclusion, and the relentless, hourly struggle against those who would prefer our disappearance.
My emotion, I suspect, startled the assembly. It was a global audience, and who can say where such words travel once they are released? Yet, as I watch the clock on this unremarkable Thursday, I am glad. One must speak the truth of the heart, even if it leaves the room a little unsettled. I have done my part; I would do it again.