Even going on estimates with Pete beats spending all day in my little room. As does cleaning out containers.
For sale. Contents of two containers. About 1000 LP albums. Inquire Within.
Seagull dinner
Viza bait.
This will be the new default image for Benevolence Reloaded
Every now and then, I escape back to the city where I belong.
Instead of being the train home to Brooklyn, now it’s the train to the city.
The number of drunks and bums Father Frank’s homeless shelter attracts to the area seems to have steadily risen over time. Now they’re passed out all over the train station day and night.
I prefer this city greeting to the drunks sprawled out on the platform in Port Jeff
Hello ESB, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again.
The city is full of ghosts
The Endless March of the Yellow Cabs
It is now safe to walk uphill.
(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.
