(August 3) I find myself now, back in Port Jefferson, with just one room, and most of my belongings in boxes in Ronkonkoma. I’m not entirely clear when either of those things is going to change. I don’t remember Port Jefferson being full of douchebags, but people yell dumb shit at me from cars constantly. “Hey asshole, I’m in a car!” Apparently they criminalized walking and cycling while I was in Brooklyn. Who knew?
At first it seemed as if time had been rolled back five years. But alas, no Billy.
I have strong memories of blading down Stony Hill Road backward, with Billy. Just as Billy is no more, so are my days of backward-blading.
(July 31) My reversion back from Brooklyn will soon be complete. It is time to leave Ronkonkoma, after a difficult eight months. I would say I’d worn out my welcome after six months, but that would imply I was ever really welcome.
By the LIRR crossing, a thistle grows.
The distinctive shade is kind of a tacky color though, and the spikes are sharp and unpleasant.