I Don't Remember Things

I did the breakfast/ lunch thing,

I walked down and up stairs, panting like a dog. I did push ups when I got ready, to leave, and I didn't go on IRC. I'm happy with myself. I get ready to go to therapy. I throw on a sweater, and my gear on my back and walk down the stairs, only to get to the fifth floor and remember that I left my cell phone that my brother gave me to act as a watch, since mine stopped several weeks back. Don't worry, the cell phone does not work, but it keeps great time.

I re-enter my room, and the door shuts behind me and for a second I stand there. I don't want to leave. I want to stay and get online. I'm comfortable here, why should I want to leave? But Dr. L.'s voice comes back to me, asking me not to forget to come to this, our last meeting together, and my out-take, and exit review. If she didn't ask me pointedly to make it, I would have dropped my bag. Plus, on top of this I have the college class today at 5:30 to recite poetry. Adjunct professor that I am. I can't let the kids down.

I leave and hop the way, and in a few minutes, nearly an hour, I walk into ICD and take the elevator up to Dr. L's floor. "How do you feel?" She asks me. Miserable. I'm going to miss my meetings with you. I need to have my therapy. "Well, you are on a waiting list for a therapist, and as soon as one opens up, we'll be giving you one. But until then, you just have Dr. W once a month." I nod. That's great, I say sarcastically. Dr. W's sessions are brief and all about my taking my head meds. Little else. "You've met all of your goals here, even with the self control of your drinking. Although I have to caution you once again, it's a slippery slope." I got this Doc, I let her know. I've got this under control. She gives me a lot of contact information for other organizations that can help me. Can you get me a therapist? How about that? That'll help me immensely. "We're working on that, Hobobob," she said.

In no time, it was over. I signed papers and said my goodbyes. This was not goodbye, she let me know. I don't know what else to call it. I headed out of ICD and out of the building. It was a cool afternoon, people were wrapped in their windbreakers and walked with shoulders against the wind. I make my way to the Way, looking at the women walk by. I'm hypnotized already by the New Yorkers. One would think it was summer by how some were dressed. I am talking about the women. Who gives a fuck how men are dressed?

I ride the 6 down to 14th street, the L to 6th avenue, the 1 all the way down to Chambers street. Let me tell you, it was an odyssey. Down in lower Manhattan I search for a Starbucks. My brother is supposed to give me an email if we are to meet to go to the classroom or not. We haven't gotten the room number yet from the professor so there is no way to know for certain if the class is on. I walk around the blocks, and when I decide that enough is enough, I see the circular, green and white sign hanging in the air down the block.

I find a table near an outlet and get online. I get the relayed email from the professor to my brother to me. It reads:


"so sorry guys for leaving you hang on this. unfortunatley, the dept. has scheduled a final exam (out of my control) for this day. so, instead of having the joy of poetry, my students will be busy taking a test."


Beautiful. I am exactly one block away from the college. No biggie though, I'm in a Starbucks and online. I slip into IRC and bullshit with my friends. Time scampers by as I chat, until it's time to leave. I pack up my gear and head uptown to the Starbucks there. Upon walking into the door I notice that there are no empty chairs next to any outlets. This is not good. After walking about I find an outlet against the wall but no table. I was just about to pull a table over to it when my brother walks past me and sits down at one of the occupied tables, his gear marking his space. I come upon him and we catch up with all the juicy gossip of the day.

I get back online, and back into IRC, but now there aren't the conver- sationalists in channel. Instead, there are what I like to call 'jump ins', whose only skill in conversation is to jump in the middle of a conversation with their own little comments. Once the conversation is over, they are as quiet as church mice. Whatever. I don't stay on long. I get off and read email and work on finishing my new book: Cover of Darkniss. I had hit some writer's block on it earlier, and then an IRC block, but now it was in me, coming out.

Soon, the counter girl exclaims that they are closing. My brother and I leave. I get on the Way and head home, cursing the tourists as they still wander around the subway system as if they're lost. I work my way around them, laden down with my gear, struggling with this heavy burden onto the train and get to my home. I don't think, I just do. I hit the stairs, marching up the flights, an enormous stairmaster.

I open the door to my room. It's dark, the window is open, it's cool. I rest my bag down, unpack my gear, make dinner. I get online, but I blog instead of jump into IRC. I'm avoiding it some. Soon, I crawl into bed, thinking about all of those still in the street, such as my brother and Electra, who are now searching for a chair somewhere, away from the cops and the skeksies just to get a good nights sleep.

I stretch out. I got an email from Doc A:


"Do you have time to go with me to Hicksville tomorrow to pick my stuff."

It looks like I"ll be leaving town early tomorrow morning.

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