I'm going to miss black underwear

I want to write now.

I want to get behind my computer and write. Especially this blog, once again. I'm back to something, I don't know what it is, but my mind is clearer than what it was days ago, last week, where it would not slow down. Where it would not focus. I woke up today and was focused like a hunter down a gun sight. Yesterday was such a quick day. Well, for an insomniac it's always like that. You get so tired during the day, your head nods.

Nods until you either black out or go to bed...for what? Two hours. A fucking nap. But if you think of it. Two or three naps can kill a day. The morning at 7:00am with a two hours gap awake between three naps, leave you with 9:00pm. Pretty fast day. A nap in the morning, another in the afternoon, and the night is already in the window. That shit is disconcerting. It's as if your life is running in fast forward and you're just there staring at it helplessly.

The sun sets, what seems like four hours after I woke, I take my pills almost one series behind the other. Am I taking my night dosage too soon. And then marches the night. For some reason slower, lonelier, darker, longer. I stand away from my computer, cup of coffee in my hand, in the middle of my small room. Small room. I read a New York Times article about the youth in prison, and how many of them have mental problems and that instead of therapy they locked up and forgotten.

I look at the photo of one young person in his terrible cell, and for the fact that he can't leave at anytime that he wants and take a 54 block walk, his jail cell looks more spacious than mine, with a window. What kind of shit is that? And for me, I don't walk out of the door as much as I would like to anyway. Am I bitching. As I stand up in the middle of my room in the middle of the night, in the middle of my mind, I have to wonder if I am or not.

I'm doing what it is that I'm always doing, polishing the vehicle of my life, my novel. The one thing that I pray will propel me out of my horrid existence. The slingshot of my life, propelling me back into the real world since a job does not look promising until sometime late 2010. That's if things start to get better. As I'm reading in the indicators, even the foreign countries are now foundering under the weight of the recession.

If they're not doing all that great, what does it look like for me? I shake my head. I'm in the more unwanted, unlikeliest, unluckiest, position in my life. It's as if I went drunk into a bar one moment, and finding myself in the middle of a gangbang the next. How the fuck did I get in this fucking mess? I trip over something walking in the door or something? Well, there's nothing left for me to do now but ride it out, basically. See who breaks who. And I tell you, I'm far from being broken.

That's what this new clarity does for me. It fills me with a new sense of power, of ability. I have a new mindset to fight. This is not the time to mourn. I was in worse straits than this. Worse. I was one fucked up individual. It's always darkest before the dawn. It means that I have to do something. I have to make energy to get energy. If I let these drugs make me complacent, then nothing will change in this life. Nothing. If I break free, tear lose, free my fucking mind, I'll be free to change my world. That's the way that I see it.

I see it that I'm crippled now, hobbled. I have to fight. Fight here, fight now, in this life, in this room, in this body, in this head. I have do fight in the microcosm if I'm to succeed. Any other battle, any other place, any other where is just a distraction. No more distractions. I have to get out of the hole that I'm in. I have to free this soul of mine, or I'll be here in this room, by myself, until kingdom come.

I fall asleep after editing into the wee hours of the morning and awaken with more energy than I have ever had. Again, the bane of an insomniac. You wake up with tons of energy that lasts only about two hours before it turns pale and you start to nod, eyes getting heavy, your consciousness swoons. You need the bed worse than an alcoholic needs a bottle.

Around sometime I get up and start my day, doing the usual and actually chomping on the bit to get the fuck out of the room to take my walk. I clear through my emails and and I finish at 11:30 sharp, jump in some pants and a shirt, slip on my jacket and flank out the door. On the other side, of the door, once in the real world, there is commotion. Maintenance is working on the apartments around me. I slip down the hall and coming the other way is Paula. Hey Paula. "Hey Hobobob, I'm doing fine, I just talked to the Box and they scheduled me for...." Oh gawd. She stopped, tears in her eyes, a grin on her face, a tissue in her hand dabbing her cheek. I stare at her, sorry that I left my room. I grit my teeth, this is going to take awhile. "...they talked to each other and they agreed to give me bereavement counseling. Lisa, you remember Lisa right?" I think, no. I don't tell her this though. Hell yeah, I remember Lisa! "Well, she has agreed to give me three sessions," she smiled brighter, her eyes teared more. "Isn't that good news." Oh yeah, Paula, it's great news. Good gawd, she's going to be in pain forever I fear. Didn't she just spend a stretch in Bellevue? Didn't they tighten her up a little. Get her over this hump so that she could function. For some reason I fear that this is just a cry for more and more attention. She'd better calm this shit down before the freaks in blue are called on her ass.

Well, I've got to go, Paula. I'm late to do nothing.... no... late for an engage- ment. "OH, okay Hobobob, I'll talk to you later." Not if I get my Black ass into my room first. Lord I'm so glad that we never built the kind of relationship where we knocked on each other's door for shit, or I would be pulling my hair out now. I slip away from her and head downstairs, hit the street, cross to the avenue, Broadway, and start to march down the street. I march, keeping my eyes on the concrete sidewalk, moving smoothly, weaving around the murder babycarriages, the slow old people with pushcarts, the oblivious women on cell phones, the bums on the sidewalks begging for Christmas handouts, tourists milling about in the middle over everything, holding up traffic as they stare up at the tall buildings, sidewalks narrowed by Christmas tree and fresh vegetable vendors, all in my way. Before I knew it, I was at 72nd street. by the addition of three more blocks, it will be a total of six more (going and coming) making my entire walk 60 blocks, taking a little more than an hour and a half to walk. I take on the other three blocks down to 69th street and then back up. It felt like nothing. I was doing the thing, growing stronger every day, getting more and more energy. I am proud of myself.

I do some food shopping and head upstairs, hoping not to run into Paula again, and get into the room. After unpacking I walk out to take a leak. There, down the hall, is the Italian screaming woman. The last time I saw her she was speaking to a small army of Brooklyn Detectives. Prior to that she was standing in the middle of the hallway, dressed in nothing but lace underwear and shelf bra with a gorgeous body, yelling down the stairwell after her man. Now she was dragging the ominous black garbage bags out of her room. Meaning that she was moving. A inquiring man was standing nearby, watching her labor with her large black bags. "What happened?" "My fucking boyfriend cost me my apartment!" She cussed. "Him and his drug dealing." I wonder. If I had a man that was dealing drugs out of my apartment, HE WOULDN'T BE MY MAN FOR LONG. Simple logic. Why are you making excuses to the cops as to where he is and isn't. Tell them that it's over and never come back. You have nothing more to do with him and you don't want them to cost you your apartment. Simple. What the fuck is wrong with you, and how can you blame him about something that belongs to you? You cost yourself your apartment.

I'm pissed because I won't be able to see her in sheer black underwear any more. That's a fucking bummer. I go use the bathroom and leave them to their conversation. I go back into my room gratefully. And call it a night. Tomorrow I have a big day. I'm going to the movies and hang out with friends. I'm a little out of sorts, I need to get my act back together. I have to reinsert myself into society.

I'm going to stay up late tonight. I'll write you sometime tomorrow.
And blog up this post.

Damn I'm going to miss her in her black underwear.

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