It was pretty much as ugly a scene outside Trump Tower as I expected. Protesters and gawkers are all herded across the street while access to the Tower and shops is behind barricades and police. I heard someone on the radio say that she was basically stopped and frisked just crossing the street but I did not see anything like that. America feels uglier then it did a few weeks ago. I guess he can’t do his business anywhere else? I did not attempt to enter the building, but it didn’t look like I would have any trouble doing so. But I don’t know if I want to. I just bumped into a rabid right-wing republican friend on the street. I did not even think to mention the election, which is probably a good thing. He was among those who was somewhere between skeptical and ambivalent about Trump early on. Now he seems to be among the gloaters, if what little I saw of his Facebook postings were any indication. His politics don’t matter to me because he does not vote. At least I think he does not vote. I asked him once where he votes and he said he didn’t remember. That’s just not something you forget. Forgetting which councilperson you voted for is possible but you can’t seriously forget the polling place.
I walked there but took a train back. I feel less anxious than yesterday but now am just depressed and dully humming inside. I slept too long and too late. This daily appearance at the ghetto coffee shop has become my frame of reference, or my stability. Even if I am only here for a few minutes it’s become an important thing to me. I just wish this place wasn’t so fucking ghetto. It is fine on appearances and quality. It’s the guys who work here, and the little kids who sometimes start throwing stuff around and rough housing.
I feel tiny. I don’t like what I see of myself any more. I never really did, but it seemed better for a while. The therapy was a waste of time.
