By the end of therapy session #3 yesterday I had the woman in stitches. She was laughing so hard, and she said “You are such an interesting person!” It was an interesting turnaround, I mean one minute she’s empathizing with a childhood trauma that has lingered in the recesses of my mind for over 40 years, the next minute she just cannot believe the shit that is coming out of my mouth. If she has one sort of nagging flaw it’s that she reverts to conversation a little too much. She is very tuned in to the arts, though, so it’s hard to avoid subjects like piano music and such. It’s all good, though. I’m going in twice a week until I slow down. She’s been looking at me like I am a fucking freight train coming through her office.
At the Trump Tower again. I left here yesterday and had to wade through a phalynx of media people and persiflage. I should have realized that the campaign HQ is here. I remember speculating on that months ago, before anyone took Trump seriously. I just thought it would be cool if this place became a nerve center for the President of the United States. Now I’m not so sure how cool that would be but I don’t think it would change the atmosphere of this Public Garden too much.
I was writing a poem (in my mind) about chicken bones. Last week I brough a few pieces of chicken with me and I ate them while walking over the Queensboro Bridge. I felt like a homeless wino. I dropped the chicken legs through an openeing in the fence, or so I thought. I had intended to drop them over the edge into the East River, and that was what I thought I had done. The next day I crossed the bridge again and noticed one chicken bone, and then a second. Evidently onlly one of my chicken bones made it over the bridge and into the river. Unless someone else has been dropping chicken bones on the bridge. I find that scenario unlikely. I never would have thought to look for such a thing but I have never, ever seen chicken bones on the bridge. I consider myself the first human ever to perpetrate this act of littering the bridge with chicken bones. Until now the span was boneless. NEVER has there been EVEN ONE chicken bone on the walkway, on the roadway, or even at the entry points. Flies and insects had gathered on both the bones, which still had small amounts of chicken meat and fat on them. It was a lot of activity. Ants. Congregation. Feeding frenzy. The organic process of life found a focal point in these clusters that form on the bones. Yesterday both bones were still present but one was being carried away by ants. Why would they want the entire bone, and where are they taking it? It was curious and eerie to see the bone moving. At first I thought I had imagined it but I stopped in my tracks and the chicken bone did not. It moved forward at a pace I initially thought was timid but which I quickly recognized as triumphant. The collective consciousness of ants is an amazing phenomenon. No one of them is thinking a complete thought but put them all together and a Jaynesian form of consciousness forms. Now I see the ants carrying away my bones, for when I die I want to be savagely dismembered and all my bony parts scattered across the Queensboro Bridge, to deteriorate according to the laws of God and to feed the ants until I return.
