Felt late today but for me being 45 minutes early is what I call being late. Trains just suddenly became slow, in the way slowness can be sudden. I had a swarm of thoughts today. Walking to the train, all the mental notes and tics. I took time out of my life to report an abandoned CitiBike. That was 2 weeks ago. The bike is still there, clamped to a street sign. I don’t think it has moved in 3 months. It’s not like it’s bothering anyone, I don’t think, but still, there is a mechanism for reporting these abandonments and these mechanisms seem only to keep people employed without having to do what they were hired to do.

I had one success. The large “Museum of the Moving Image” sign somehow became upside down. It seemed it might fall, with only half its usual amount of support. I reported that and it was fixed within a couple of days. That was a large sign that could have fallen so I gues that gets priority.

Looking down 35th Avenue I saw streetlight after streetlight. So much mechanism in the city, far as the eye can see, and every piece of mechanism accountable, reportable. I passed the laundromat, which opens at 8am, but I still smart from the day it was open and doing business before 7am. Why did that happen? Whose decision to make laundry happen before normal business hours?

I check on the Payphone Radio cards, which stubbornly will not be dislodged from the sign at the Q66 bus stop between 30th and 31st Streets. 

I remember the success of getting a pedestrian crosswalk signal restored to service. It took weeks but it finally happened.

With all this mental activity I don’t forget to remember. My mother’s corpse rotting into dirt. Mine will do the same, how soon I do not know. I step on sidewalk cracks and imagine her back breaking. Such a mean meme from childhood. The smell of rotten eggs lightly filled the air of my apartment today. I was up and awake at 6am, feeling good and knowing I would spend a solid half hour masturbating in the shower. That was fun, and went well, as it tends to go these days. I was remembering Vivia again, how the tenderest thing she did was let her fingers droop upon my back, gently stroking patterns across my flesh as she wrapped her legs around me. God, we fucked good, practically from the instant we met. It seemed like the fucking started on that Q66 bus.

But enough about her. Vivia, the deported kleptomaniac shoplifter. Not her real name. I never knew her real name.

I took the pills, diligently. Somehow my supplu has lasted longer than I expected. I have a month of 2mg Lorazapan pills, which means 2 months since I typically take just 1mg, breaking the pill in half. Some days I take 1.5 milligrams. Actually I’m lying, I take 1.5 almost every work day. Days off I take 1mg.

I took to the piano yesterday, for about an hour. I could feel the muscle deficit from playing barely at all this past year. I felt it at the 180 Maiden Lane public space, too, on the free-to-use Yamaha piano. Will that muscle ever return? I don’t know but there won’t be a lot of Don Juan Fantasy in my immediate future.

The real last CityBridge payphone of New York is finally gone. I had to do a lot of walking to get there. The 7 train conductor just decided they would not make it all the way to Main Street. So everyone had to walk from Flushing Meadows-Corona Park to Main Street, which is a long-ass walk over an inhospitably lengthy bridge with brutal winds to boot. I walked from there to Kissena and whatever the street past Cherry, near Pop’s Diner, to find that the last CityBridge phone is finally gone. I saved a couple of round metal pieces… are they called washers? They were leftover from the phone. My souvenir.

Have to work now.