A few days ago I found that someone somewhere on the Internet had an experience that reminded him of me. We have never met and probably never will. I do not know this person except as an online acquaintance. Something inside of me bends a little knowing that I exist in anyone else’s memory, or even their reality. It feels shocking to know that I exist when my mental instincts insist that I do not. How can anyone think I am real? How can anyone think I exist?
This person’s story was that he was in a park when he noticed someone taking his picture. “It made me think of Mark Thomas.” The idea of anything reminding anyone of me had a small swell of horror about it. I do not know if I want to be remembered or if I want to have never existed. Calling all existentialists…
I felt my brain vomit earlier.
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Living the life. Walked to Rockefeller Center, via Ed Koch/Queensboro Bridge, will probably walk back.
Thinking of a somewhat disturbing series of voicemails and text messages that came in a couple of weeks ago. At first I thought it was kind of cute and/or amusing, but thinking about it again I think it’s anything but. A voicemail from a female who sounded like she might have been 13 years old started with saying that she’s a huge fan of mine, and that her friend (I think she said “Allie”) got her into my stuff.
Three times this girl said “I love you so much”, then followed several text messages which (if area codes still mean anything) seemed to show that she was located in rural Indiana. I have no idea who this was and no idea what she’s talking about. I don’t know what she’s a fan of. It could be a lot of things but I think I can be reasonably certain it is not this, the .MOBI. Her calls seem to have stopped.
I wonder if it was even real, or some kind of FBI sting operation. Or maybe a reality blogger mining the Internet for people to lure into embarrassment. I don’t know but it was pretty strange.
I am at Rockefeller Center, occupying one of the tables next to the skating rink. It has eluded me all these years that people who travel from fay away make a point of watching the skaters here, most of whom appear to be tourists themselves. So here I am, surrounded by tourists. They approach me somewhat timidly, respectfully asking if they can use one of the chairs from my table. “We just want to have a seat while we watch the skaters.” Is this explanation really necessary? Do I look like I work here? I noticed this another time I was here, that when I occupy a table I immediately am granted a kind of seniority, as if I own this space and am in charge of who else occupies it or meddles with the other chairs. I could form an alumni association for this table. I’d hand out cards and create a Facebook page documenting all those who pass through this table.
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It’s later. At the ghetto coffee shop.
I entered the Trump Tower earlier. As I did a woman shouted “It’s the future President of the United States’ Tower!”, to which someone responded “POTUS!”
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