I found a scrap of paper today that gave me pause. Paws. Ruff-ruff, bow-wow.
It was addressed to me at Room 1422 at the Parc Lincoln Hotel, 166 West 75th Street, NYfuckingC.
It was a phone message: Please call so-and-so at xxx law firm in the 203 area code. December, 1990. I found the phone message in a box that has sat in my foyer for over a year and that formerly sat in my closet for a lot longer.
I recently articulated the details of this long, sorry, boring story in a public forum but it appeared no one heard so I deleted the story from that public forum.
Let me tell you something: In 1990 I was expected to be in jail through 2015, sleeping on a cot upstate and by now earning pen-and-notebook priviliges allowing me to write into a small notebook like the one I scrawled into moments before picking up this more immediately communicative (and better lit) writing pad.
Instead of 25 years of adult life whiled away on a cot I am here, alone at an empty bar, swilling good Guinness and adventuring through the end of “Major Tom to Ground Control” like I never heard the song before, and always always connecting on some level with the recently-released.
Planet earth is blue.
And there’s nothing I can do.
It’s crazy how, in youth, you may not comprehend the value of your own life or the consequences of your actions. That is cliché but I am too drunk to say it more poetically. Christalive, now the song on the box is “Mandy”.
Standing on the edge of town
Walked away when love was mine.
But I sent you away ooooooooh Mandy.
OK. I am sitting here, looking around. Looking around. My planet-shaped eyeballs cursorily float in their no-nerve sockets, nerveless dishes, quivering, looking around, looking around.
