Writing a story about the Links, and how they have been reprogrammed to send out fake CallerID information. Wondering if I should actually publish it. I don’t know if CityBridge (makers of the Links) read my site, nor do I know that they give a shit about it even if they do. I’m not influential in the way mainstream sources are, but I’m also not padding my comments about Links with fawningly innocuous favoritism the way most journalists seem to be doing. Citybridge must be aware of my comments so far. They seem to be very aware of their press image and mentions. Reason I might not want to publish it is I’d kinda like to get a job there, and something tells me their pristine-seeming corporate culture wouldn’t appreciate honest feedback from someone like me.
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Made a quick Easter galop to Calvary, which was way more busy than usual with holiday visitors. I wanted to make it an epic walk to Maspeth or even Flushing but thought better of it. Came home and wrote, this after practicing a newly discovered and really beautiful Tchaikowsky “Berceuse”, transcribed by Pabst. It’s in A-Flat Minor, which seems kind of unnecessary, but whatever. I got used to thinking of F-Flat quickly enough, showing the old brain is still limber. Or something. An illegal dumping ground behind Calvary on Laurel Hill Blvd looks like it’s been cleaned up. Where will I scavange for discarded sacks of filthy clothing now?
Not feeling much like being here at the ghetto coffee shop. Need a new place, maybe. The barista I saw on the bridge yesterday does’t work again until Thursday. Might check in with him then. I think I want to be friends with him beyond the coffee shop. I’ve thought of that before, not just because he seems like a very interesting guy but because it would really behoove me to explore more friendships beyond the local watering hole. Last time I went to that coffee shop I hadn’t been by in a few weeks. He seemed genuinely happy to see me again. I mean, it was palpable. Not in a creepy weird way, either. Just in that way that skirts the line of being a service industry worker and choosing that profession as a way to meet people. I felt for the first several times I saw him there that he already knew who I was, but I do not think that is the case. H was saying some stuff to the effect that the owner of the coffee shop was doing crazy stuff with the schedule. if that place closes I don’t think I’d have any way of reaching this guy, or he me.
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The Italian Woman wrote last week to say she was listening to a Scriabin Prelude for the left hand alone. I responded saying that playing piano music for one hand drives me near to the brink of madness. I wonder if I am alone in this. Any time I play a left-hand piece (most one-hand piano music is for the left hand) my right side quickly gets twitchy, and my brain feels lopsided. I have to shake my right arm once in a while to make sure it is still there. It’s almost like my arm was chopped off. It was not. I am typing with two hands here. Hah.
