"Rain"

Went out. Every step considered. Balances thought through. New conditions new rules. There, and back again. Rain coming down now like peas, and carrots. Peaches, and apples. All banging away at my windows. The rain don't mind folks. It just does it's purpose. Does it with joy. We should be like the rain, and have heart in our ways.

"Style"

This tells of a whole era in one image.

"Noir"

This would be a classic scene from a 1950's Film Noir drama. I could see Richard Widmark calmly getting out of that gigantic Packard or whatever it is. He strolls over smiling.
Then smoothly pulling out a Roscoe plugs the guy peeking from the alcove. He looks down shrugs, and sez,
"...da boss said no deal."
Then calmly again gets back in his giant Packard, and drives off.

"Urban Histories"

In the early 20th century men drank milk from hoses in the street. The last curbside milk hose was removed in 1967. This from West 16th Street in Manhattan. There was a ceremony attended by former Mayor Wagner Red Skelton, and Richard Nixon.

"Me"

Me at the start of this strange journey.

My three Souls above.

An ink sketch below.

"My Year Zero"

I always liked the wonderment, and gentleness of this series.

This which I shot many years ago.

It reflected my then attempts at inner calm.

This after my Homeless year.

"~O~"

"...space aliens"

The NY Times, yeah 'that' Times ran a piece saying da fucking Vikings navigated using Crystals. Sigh. Eh no! They didn't.

That the fucking Times would spill ink on this sort of Pseudoscience is fucking ass shameful!

"What's that gambling in my casino?!! I'm shocked, shocked!"

Not only that no! 9/11 was not an inside job the fucking space aliens did not build the Pyramids. Jebus wasn't an Alien.

George Soros did not pay millions of people to demonstrate against that fucking rapist Trump.

NASA, and the Clintons are not running child slave camps on Mars. That was closed last year. No the young kids slaughtered in the school massacres were not actors. 

Also FEMA as far as I hear ain't building concentration camps for Christians or white people.  Though that one may be a good idea.

Wait gets better. 

OZY.com sez that smartphones are not addictive. Massive evidence to the contrary. It's all bunk from technophobic old people. Actually it is, but so what it's still all true.

Take a look at the videos on YouTube of kids becoming hysterical some violently. When their folks takes them toys away as punishment.

Imagine taking a junkie's China white away just as they were about to jack up. Come to think of it. I think the kids should toss them devices away, and use Heroin.

Yep dear old fucking heroin or Heroin-Meth Speed Balls with Cocaine Valium chasers, and massive beer or Jack Daniels intake.

Read Bill Burroughs "Wild Boys" for instructions.

That shit is way more fun, and you can do it alone. No need for them stupid smartphone conversations. That or exchanging pics of your lunch cocks or freshly laid shit,...the latter seems to be the current fav.

Plus it kills you faster. What more could you ask for.

Of course I mean this post as satire.

Though you Nazis out there 'really' should do massive amounts of speed-ball cocaine cocktails. Sure it'll kill ya fucking stone dead,...I know it killed me three times. Like a jerk I kept coming back.

Anyway da Fuhrer would approve as so many of his staff did exactly this. So get busy mein scheibekopf nazifreunds.

Meantime put them devices in a wood chipper. It'll make both Uncle Syd, and baby Jebus smile.

"...aloud"

One of the unknowing effects of living as a partial or overt Shut-in is that you don't speak,...much. Other than to folks at the post office market or lately Library. I don't actually speak. The Home bound don't.

We don't notice either.

We read write go online listen to radio music, and such, but don't have many actual conversations. I just noticed I haven't spoken in a prolonged way in perhaps a month. 

So I began to recite. This evening I wrote up a schedule of things I would read from.

I began several hours ago by reading aloud passages from a book by Christopher Isherwood. "Christopher, and his Kind 1929~1939".

About the physical volume. I bought it on December, 10th in the year 1976. I was 26, and a gay blade. I found the actual bill of sale within,...I had forgotten I still had it. 

See photos...

It was inscribed to me by Mr. Isherwood who was by chance at the book store. The first openly Queer book store then in NYC.

He was a kind fragile bright personality. At the time I thought him elderly. I think I may be older than him now. Yet our meeting seems just a few months ago.

So I read portions of three chapters aloud. This reminded me of my broadcast time when I would read stories to the listeners in the deep of night. This over many years.

Now I read again. Only now for an audience of one. Still it was as fulfilling tonight as it was for all those years.

"Three Notes from a Life,...well four"

This is a bit long so make a sandwich.

Was just out this evening. Yeah alone on my own, and came back alive. However the weather is nuts. Cold rain wind. April is what March was supposed to be March was what December was supposed to be, and February was what April was supposed to be. Got that? ...take notes they'll be a test.

Counter point to my demon dream of a few days ago.

Last night a kindly dream. Ponies. Bright speckled neat ponies all over the place. They were wandering around dream Brooklyn. Streets of grass forested like a Peter Max poster,...ask ya Hippie grandma who, and or what he was.

I petted, and sat with these little guys. This, and I saw the kids I played with as a child. They were alive again whole, and happy,...hanging out with them ponies.

Too bad I don't do Hallmark Cards. This would make a great one. This was a happy place. Deep blue skies lazy summer clouds drifting above. Only thing missing was an ice cream truck.

My unconscious self or maybe the Angels cooked this up to chill me out. I lay in deep grass, and slept. Slept in my dream, and dreamed dreams.

On another matter.

While gleefully chatting with Claude Horvath an old comrade from my broadcasting days. The notion of being standup lecturers came up. Like stand up comics on the make ply their trade on subway platforms,...Chris Rock did this. Why not subway or street corner smarty pants lecturing.

There's the tradition of the London Speakers Corner. There's a nice spot above. Through that Corner has been somewhat supplanted by demented posting online. Still why not have folks yakking at people on every corner. Since few would notice what harm.

However one should take care to appear fit for the role. This as not to be confused with sweaty cranks screaming about socialism.

I suggest a brief case notes to refer to. These are props so they can be blank. A tweed jacket,...eh with pants, and a bow tie. Shave, and a haircut goes without saying. Eh,...a shower is recommended, but in summer not necessary.

For ladies a '50's beatnik look seems the traditional ticket.

Mind you I considered a "One Person Witness for World Sanity". Not world peace as I know better. I let the idea go when I realized it was too late. Everyone on earth is already insane myself included. Besides with the militarized police out there I could be shot.

Black people get shot for holding a loaf of bread. I shudder at my fate for lecturing,...even with a bow tie on.

In any case I'd start my first street corner lecture with the tale of how my Aunt Sybil, and I were abducted by UFO robots from her back yard when I was a baby in 1954. this will get their attention. mostly because it really happened,...long story.

I'd then subtly shift into single payer National Health, and the urgent need for a Department of the Arts. 

On a related matter.

Reading. That particular umbilical to eternity. I may have problems. Comprehension above a certain level complexity.

'Been rummaging about in the works of Ursula LeGuin. Smarty pants stuff that. I found I kept losing my way. 

'Tried less thoughtful realms. Easier, but needed bread crumbs home even there.

WTF?

Will stumble to the Library for children's works.

I imagine those roads to be less winding.

We'll see.

I'm a breath from 70. Are these signs of adventures to come.

Perhaps I should have friends read to me instead. Listening is both easier, and more comprehensible,...so I hear.

I'll get back to you on this.

One more thing.

While out I went to the Bakery. This to purchase one as in a 'single' Chocolate Claire.

Haven't had one in over two years for health reasons. However I thought I deserved one just once for being such a reasonable chap.

I think we all should have a treat from time to time for being decent. Not remotely saints, but just stand up sorts of folks.

So go get something nice for ya selves.

Stay tuned.

"...fiefdoms"

Okay here I live out my Andy Rooney fantasy. We know people. Folks close middling, and far. While I was out with Jorge my upstairs pal. He was assisting me to the library. I went rather extreme shut-in after a recent police encounter.

(My local branch in that last snow above.)

Anyway while out we ran into several folks I knew. Knew in the varying ways I mention.

The local Fed-Ex guy drove by, and honked his horn at me. We then walked back along the Parkway as it was such a fine day.

Two separate encounters with folks from the Chinese takeout I used to go to when I could afford it. Joy the owner said I should come by anyway. Routine kindness is there all around us. It is what keep us all alive.  

Jorge met some folks he knew introduced me we chatted. We joked about my high school Spanish. We ran into some Jehovah Witnesses. They've had a spot by the subway station since I was little. I've seen generations of them handing stuff out.

William whom I knew was there. I'd sometimes speak with him on my way to work or just going here or there on the trains. I once asked him to pray for me during a bad patch,...he did. I still thank him like I did today. 

NYC the Emerald City is really like the Holy Roman Empire,...google it's crazy quilt map of contending fiefdoms. We're an Empire of small towns knitted together into these islands of dreams. Except for the Bronx we're all on islands.
We're provincial cosmopolitans. This might be why we're so nuts,...and interesting.

Island peoples have a certain way of seeing a certain notion of reality. Ask any Jamaican or Brit. Anyway there, and back again,...again.

"~@~"

A beach @ twilight the moon reflecting on the waves. An old train carriage on this beach. ...it's just there.
Brightly lit with people dancing in, & about.
The moon sparkled sea the carriage so bright people sand glowing.

I knew it was a dream, but kept watching trying to make it real.

(Art my my old comrade Eric Drooker.)