Transit was unexpectedly on schedule today. I got in early. THis hasn’t happened in weeks. Discovered yesterday that the Brookville Place connects a lot further than I knew, over to the future site of WTC 5. Starting from as far away as the 2/3 Fulton Street station you can walk entirely indoors all the way to the Brookfield Place Marina and then back around to a pedestrian overpass that leads to The Sphere. From there you’re back out of doors but cover can quickly be found at one of the WTC buidings. Sometimes, after 35 years of being here, I find myself thinking that’s it’s pretty neat that I actually live here. There is so much of New York I will never know but what I do know never gets old.
The GenZ doctor gave me a new BP med, something-potassium, and it has me feeling pretty damn fine. Calm. At least for now. I don’t know of any subtle or long-term side-effects, I just take what she gives me as long as it doesn’t make me vomit or feeling confused. “Confusion” is one of those side-effects I never experienced until recently. It was, seriously, no fun at all. All the while there was a portion of my brain overseeing everything and keeping it from going off the rails but functionally I was an invalid. I don’t remember now what pill that was but it was some kind of statin.
No romantic prospects at all for me these days. Only suggestion of such is a woman here at the workplace, where I would mostly resist getting involved with anyone except the most magical and mischievous connection. I saw her walking across the floor yesterday and swore I saw her bare feet. She wore normal shoes so this vision was fantasy, a flight of fancy, a bit of horndogginess. She addressed me by name one day a few weeks ago. I’d never connected with her at all and no one here has a name plate so I was surprised she knew my name. I found her name because she had a notebook with the cover custom printed with her full name in gold swirly letters. I looked her up online and find she’s about 40 and still lives with her parents in Hell’s Kitchen. Muslim. The closest thing there’s ever been to a true “love of my life” was the Muslim woman I dated for about 3 years. It was like having an affair with a married woman. We had to be careful where we walked where we were seen in Astoria. Anywhere else was normal but in Astoria we would often have to duck behind something to prevent one of her neighbors or other connections from seeing us. I was the “white guy” in all this. Her parents were not the sort to do anything extreme if they knew she was dating a white guy but it would have been uncomfortable as hell and they would simply have told her to stop wasting her time with me. Extreme consequences do happen in Astoria. It’s no myth. She knew an Egyptian girl, 21 or 22, whose parents ordered her to stay at home for a year when they found she was dating a white guy. Time to go.