Winged Birds Need Not Fly

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I wake up to my name being called. It's Igor.

"Hobobob, do you want to have coffee with me in the morning?"

It's not morning yet? I look around. Yes, it is. Thank God for his sake. No thank you. I roll over. Last night he sits next to me while I'm on my laptop. "Do you want to have coffee with me in the morning?" No thank you, Igor. "Well do you need to borrow money? I can give you twenty or forty or anything like that if you need it." Why thank you Igor. But no, I'm quite fine, I lied. "I mean it," he says. I know you do.

Later he plies me again, earnestly wanting to take me out for coffee or lend me money. I decline each time. Now, in the morning he does the same. He is becoming annoying. I try my best to be reserved and grateful, and each time he is more and more insistent. What is this guy's problem? And I do mean problem, because no sooner does he meet up with a few of his so called 'friends' in the dorm does he go on to complain about all 'these people' in the dorm owing him money. I mean, he actually cranks and complains in the same breath that he used to literally beg to lend me money. Now do you see why I call these people nuts?

I get up and make my bed. He does the same. "I'm getting out of here," he tells me. "I want to be anywhere but here." I feel the same, although I do not voice it. I want to be anywhere but here. So where is it that I DO go? Well, Astor Place Starbucks, where else? The livingroom of my life. I find the Eye of God occupied, so I take a seat nearby, keeping an eye on it until it's empty. Then I skedaddle over to it and cop a squat slicker than snot.

But while I'm there, can you imagine my surprise as to who I see? Why, without a doubt, and beyond my tired eyes, there's Buzzard sitting at a table, his face long, head bald. He looks like his old self, dressed in wrinkled khaki's and a jersey. He is surrounded by electronics, a set of bud sets jammed deep into his ears. He is busy reading a paper. There seems to be no change to him, no change to his blank demeanor. He is Buzzard, now and as always. I wonder what happened to Corporate Buzzard? Was it easily removed like clothing? Was that all it was, clothing? Is that what makes me different than you? Clothing?

I'm not so naive. Just a little too analytical. I'm taking apart something that needs not be dismantled. Buzzard has not changed. It is our opinion of him that has changed, from when my brother saw him in the streets. I did not see him then, but I see him now.

Will my change be so shallow? I wonder if it is just the addition of money, and new set of duds, and a haircut that will signal the change of ME? Or is it just the outward appearance, or just people's opinion? Makes one wonder. What is the gulf between me and you? A moral flexibility? A moral lack? I don't know. I just know that we are.

My brother joins me in the early afternoon. We don't talk much. He reads and I write. I work on my screenplay and draw it to it's inevitable conclusion. I work rapidly, tying up loose ends and watching my characters move themselves along. All I'm doing is watching movies in my head. My brother and I plan to go to a nearby soup kitchen, one that we call Bethel, in the Jewish Center. From there, the plan is to go take sandwiches from the Jewish Center to the nearby Washington Square Park and watch the sexy students walk by until evening.

We glom as many peanut butter and jelly and tuna fish sandwiches that we can eat. I try to watch the women walk by but quickly fall asleep, napping like an old man in retirement. I bore easily I find. The young college kids were having some sort of party on the New York University campus grounds, and only those with college ID's could go in. My brother and I stood outside of the party, staring as if our faces were pressed against glass.

Their show quickly bored me and I marched off, heading to the Jewish Center for sand- wiches. Now watching women bored me and I found myself awakening from slumber, wiping saliva from the corner of my mouth. It was late and time for me to head in. My brother and I walked back over to Broadway, and he headed uptown whereas I headed down.

I found my bed and wrote. Keep writing Hobobob. Keep writing until you rock your hands loose. Until your arms are so tired that you can't lift them. Keep writing. Don't stop, or like a shark, you'll die. Write an email, finish blogging, work on your screenplay, do some fucking poetry for crisssakes!! Just keep on writing.

Write like your very soul was on the line.

Because Goddamnit, it is.

HobobobSource URL: http://idontwanttobeanythingotherthanme.blogspot.com/2008/09/winged-birds-need-not-fly.html
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