Yawn. Sneeze. Cough. Feeling bad today but got a lot of stuff done. I should not be in public with my contagions but it’s safe. No one nearby.
I learned today that a long-time friend and business associate has been negotiating a deal to effectively sell one of our web sites for a chunk of money that sounded impressive at first but not so inspiring after 3 seconds of number-crunching. The deal apparently fell apart, which is for the best. I am having fun with my own web projects again and have little desire to enter into new business relationships.
D. and I have been having a good time of it, I think. We went out to the big Calvary Cemetery last week and walked most of the length of the might Triborough Bridge (recently and randomly re-named the RFK Bridge). She is a big part part of why I am feeling motivated and inspired to do new things with my web sites and with the rest of my erstwhile stagnating life.
My friend Tina had her first child yesterday. I cried. I did. It was nice to get word of an arrival that was only a cause for happiness. The boy’s arrival was way overdue and a source of some anticipation. The dude is 22 inches and 8 pounds. That is huge, no?
I realized later that there was some irony in my weeping over this blessed event. The last time I cried was 2 weeks ago on the occasion of the death of my downstairs neighbor. One week there is death, another week there is new life, and I feel more and more the transience of what litters this planet in between.
Jackson’s apartment is still cordoned off as a police scene but the owner of the building and others have turned the door to the apartment into a shrine of sorts. A candle and some vases of flowers were placed at the door, and I see this any time I come or go from the building. The owner of the building is in a tough spot until the police can decide who to contact or what to do with the stuff in the apartment. Jackson seems to have left little evidence of relatives or friends and until the police can find time to find such folks the apartment is sealed, not rentable, and losing money for the owner. You hate to look at it that way … or do you? The minutia of life parades on.
Would someone like Jackson end up buried at Potter’s Field? I imagine that Potter’s Field is a burial ground for indigent, the poor, and people who fell off the grid of life. Is it also for those who walk among us, familiar, today?
