At the teeny tiny coffee shop, thinking I should write poetry but can’t think of a single word. Was walking to Manhattan but wind on the Queensboro was too much and I had nothing really in mind to do over there.

nothing in mind, nowhere to see myself. Yes to the backflow of a dangling mirror tht shakily peridcopes the street outside. I can see peole coming, going. To-ing. Fro-ing. I never know who is going to and who is going fro. If i make it to 90 years of age I will let it go and stand on corners asking people “Are you going to, or fro?” Answers will vary but no one will question me or punch me out because I will be 90.

A woman did that to me once. She looked like was 190, and i got the sense that she stood on the corner of 21st Steet and 33rd Avenue witing for strangers to pass by so she could tell them anecdotes and amazements from her astounding life. As far as I could tell her enduring amazement was that she was 90. But as I managed to tear myself away from this woman I thought hey, why not, if I ever get that old what am i going to care about anything? I’ll stand on street corners bragging about my amazing life.

Just now in that mirror I saw two people going to, and one person going fro. Or maybe it was the other way around. Two people going fro, and one going to. Or maybe they were both going fro, since the direction matters not in a relative sense. The man could have been going to a place, as the two women could have been going to another place. But all parties must, too, being going fro, since you can’t go to a place without coming from another. I guess everyone is going to and fro simultaneously, though a lot of us know little about where we are going to and not much more about whence we came.

Was up early today, and will head home soon to commence phase two of moving my workspace to big old beautiful wood desk. Time to dismantle the big old ugly table, or at least part of it. Free up some space.

interesting series of coincidences yesterday. An e-mail from a Huffington Post writer who wants to Interview me. She was referred to me by Silas, a friend I met on the day of the east coast blackout. A former Astoria he was contacted by this HuffPo reporter, but since he no longer lives her she must have asked if he knew other “characters” around here. So he referred her to me.

Coincidentally I was looking at Hootsuite, where I have a canned search of social media for “payphones” and “public telephones” and other such variants on the term. I was alarmed to see a photo of a large mural in the Chicago Avenue station on the Blue Line of the Chicago Transit Authority. The mural contained three photos, all of them lifted directly from my web site without permission or credit. That would be strange enough except that one of the photos included Silas’ wife in a photo Silas took of her standing in a grass hut styled phone booth in Peru. So, within moments of hearing from a reporter who was referred to me by Silas I see a picture he took of his wife and which he contributed to my web site, and which had been illegally displayed in a Chicago subs=ways station for what appeared to be at least a few years.

And you knkow what’s weirder? The person who took the photo of that mural in the Chacago Avenue station is a professional photographer who took photos of Silas in Long Island City 8 years ago! They are still in contact and we all got a laugh out of this strange confluence of coincidences.

…

The barista here just asked an incoming cusmter “Are going to or coming from work?” Going to, or fro? He said “Both”, and laughed. “I work 24 hours.” Mutual laughter.

Time for me to leave.