Everybody here looks familiar. Younger versions of you. Older versions of me. One man earnestly clutching and speaking into his cell phone bears an uncanny resemblance to Bill de Blasio, Mayor of New York at this moment. A younger man looks like a former co-worker at the Tower Records by Lincoln Center. A conspicuously concerned woman who cannot stop silently mouthing entire conversations with herself while pulling at her beautiful red hair resembles a comedienne and songwriter I used to know. She was a horrible comic but a good songwriter. But no one, least of all myself, could tell her this. She was too angry and insecure for legitimate professional feedback.

I do not speak the language of anger, as I remember thinking when I failed to offer her positive affirmation after her comic appearance while praising and chuckling over the appearance of another comic on that show. Maybe that was rude of me? She was from England. A young Asian woman just put her hand on her heart and whispered, somewhat wonderously, “Oh, I love this song.” I do not recognize this song, coming through unknown medium (radio? someone’s playlist?) but it sounds like Adele.

Everybody looks like everybody. It cannot help but happen. Nothing is new under the sun and human uniqueness and its requisite dignity are no different. Fuck you all.

…

At the Caffe Bene on Steinway. I never knew this place extended so deeply beyond the façade. With its always-occupied window seating I thought this was a tiny, even claustrophobic space. This out-Bakeways Bakeway in terms of interesting spaces in which to sit. Bakeway has books but they look like afterthoughts, and used afterthoughts at that. The shelving here is solid wood, and the books (which look new) are punctuated by a ceramic Pooh Bear, a teapot, a bunny in a bucket (who should meet my monkey puppet in a barrel from a previous posting) and other pleasing tchotchkes. This place feels like an upscale college coffee house

There is a location several doors south of here that I thought had been the Caffe Bene, which would have meant that the place closed yesterday, after I first noticed it on Sunday. Nope. This place is another new hangout for me, and that is good.

It is just too damn bad I forgot those noise canceling headphones. For this place I could really use them.

Alas, was not planning to stay long. I’ve been busying myself with purging my space of needless books and certain of those old music magazines. I dropped a stack of them at the Salvation Army, just south of here. I pulled a couple of pages from one of them. It was a piece of music by Josef Hoffman, who is among the more interesting composers of the 20th century who seems to be relatively unplayed. His music is not epic or even particularly substantive, but it is sincere and at times haunting. His music is of interest for the fact that it came from such a renown pianist who clearly had the chops to write virtuoso music but for the most part seems not to have done that. But that’s just as far as I’ve discovered so far. I never looked into his original music too deeply. Tonight perhaps I will discover he wrote a 12-hour piano concerto for 17 pianists, 47 orchestras, 87 choruses, and 7 politicians.

…

Lest my 11- and 12-hour sleep sessions of last week be blamed on the booze I woke at noon today from just such another epic in somnonambulation. I don’t think I got up once between 1am and noon, but I was feeling wide awake for much of that time. The upstairs neighbor makes quite a bit of noise through the night, as have I at times. But I would never call the owner of the building on her, unless it sounded like she had died and turned her stereo on full blast.

I headed into sleep last night with a different and I think healthier attitude, not blaming sobriety for my lack of sleep nor using that excuse as a crutch to dive back into drinking. I also did 25 pushups. When healthier I can do 50 pushups without even blinking. No question I can get to that norm once again, should I choose to, booze or no booze.

…

Obviously (or maybe not) no chapel today. Was not ready anyway but all that sleep cut in. They usually lock the chapel doors at 3, so there’s no way I could have much more than an hour in there. I need to get a scooter or one of those moto-whatever they’re called. You could not pay me to ride a bike in this town but, sticking to sidewalks in relatively unpopulated stretches of road like the Honeywell Street Bridge, that no man’s land between Queens Boulevard and Greenpoint Avenue, and the cemetery grounds itself, I think a foot-fitting scooter might be just the time-saving gadget I need.

Hmmm, “cemetery grounds itself…” I think that is proper. “Grounds” is a collective noun, is it not? There are not multiple surfaces of earth, with one ground here and one there. There are sections but those are, as far as the “grounds” are concerned, arbitrary or else perfunctory. Will think about this later, or maybe not. Think I just got hit by a caffeine overload. Not going to drink any more of this shit, or be distracted by any more of this place. Going away again.