I went to the Brooklyn Public Library today with my wife for the second time. We looked for books on the history of New York to help her write her latest paper for school. There were some books that had won awards and some books that looked outdated. I was curious about all of the books, I wanted to have read all of them and know what the titles meant, but I didn’t want to actually read them. I mean I wanted to, if I had all the time in the world, but I wouldn’t make time to, because none of them were written in a way that resonated with me.
I finished American Gods today. Four days. I just had to know how it turned out. Not so much a page turner as just a book that really spoke to me and so I just pushed everything to the side to read it, like how I do when friends come to visit. Just wiped the desk clean, so to speak.
I had a beer on the way back from the library. A belgian trippel at a place named for a saint near Bergen Street. Yum. We are going out for burgers for dinner. And I have no money, but fuck it, I actually do have some money. I was going to pay bills with it but I’m sure this is more important. Fuck bills.
I was thinking today that I have to stop identifying myself as a waiter/server/bartender. I have to allow that shit to fade out. I don’t want to pick up the mantle of professional dealer with manic old men who write books, but at least that would be a step in the right direction.
I am an artist!
I am sitting next to my front door (on the inside of my apartment) on a gray rug that I stole from an absent minded somnambulist. I am sitting here drinking a beer that I don’t particularly like and I am thinking about what I did today. Only I’m not thinking of events because I can’t remember them well enough to make sense of them. Instead, I am thinking about this moment and what does it mean to be a man in Nautilus brand sweat pants two sizes too big with frayed bottoms drinking a beer in the dark at one in the morning while my wife sleeps and my good friend reposes on the love seat with his feet over the side and his breathing slow and shallow and that’s what makes me think he is asleep, too.
The reason I can’t think of the things I did today is that I am not the person who did those things. Maybe half my cells have died and been replaced since then. My mind certainly can’t process the past in a satisfactory way. It skews even the present, but not as viciously as it does the past. The memories I have now are only a representation of the person I’ve become since those memories allegedly occurred.
Anyway, it’s kind of nice here, now that I think about it. The beer is not tasty but it is alcoholic and oftentimes that’s what matters.
(Just now, by the way, I think someone built an entire jungle gym right outside of my door and then dropped it down the stairs. Either that or Charles Bronson is escaping this building’s stairwell using only a tin sledgehammer and a baby’s rattle.)
It’s nice here and besides I have had a nice day. I didn’t expect it to end this way, but that’s okay.
See my friend came to visit me and I had to work. So I was away for eight and a half hours and they were thinking of coming out after I got off. But then I texted them at midnight to say what’s up and got no reply. Then I walk into a dark apartment and so it goes.