Fuck Off Bro

By the time I get around to writing on yesterday, today is already happening. Think people mostly make art because they don't get to live, and I'm not having that problem.

Threw out all my bedding last week.

Stuffed my mattress in the dumpster up the block.

Been sleeping on the floor on a yoga mat. Duffel bag of clothes for a pillow. Busted out the sleeping bag. Whenever I do this, it reminds me of who I was when I was young and fresh out of the box. That guy was so much cooler than he knew.

Day before yesterday I took the D train to Bryant Park around noon, and tried to sit in the park, drink my coffee, and get high before going to write in the library.

There's a guy my age leaning on a ledge-wall overlooking the park with a drink in a bag, and I ask him if he minds if I sit at the 2-top high table behind him.

"Mind if I sit here?"

He looks at me, says, "Sure", then points his index finger, and says, "But I don't like that." He's p0inting at my vaporizer.

"Thanks," I say, sitting. I ignore the second part.

He tells me again. "I don't like that."

"You're drinking 4 Loco in the park my dude, I don't think you have a lot of room to talk."

"It's in a bag."

"Whatever bro. You do your thing, I'll do mine."

"What's wrong with you?"

"Stop talking to me bro."

"I told you I don't like that."

"Stop talking to me."

"You want to fight me?"

"FUCK OFF BRO. Leave me the fuck alone. I'm trying to do my thing, you do yours."

He's silent for a few seconds, but he's drunk midday and I'm high and these two polarities are bound to spark.

I fall silent, and don't respond to the next five things he says.

Then he says, "I am a good guy. I am from Nepal."

He moves to take his ID out of his wallet. And I can't fucking help it I say, "I've been there. It's beautiful. But you're a fucking asshole."

He is all lit up now. He knows this whole thing is a sham. He stops trying to get out his ID and instead reaches across the table and tries to shake my hand.

But I get up and walk away. "Goddamn man. Leave me alone. Just trying to drink my coffee. Dickbag."

Over my shoulder, I hear him snort with laughter. He seems surprised that I am still pretending to be angry.

Defeat.

I go in the library and publish What is Psychogeography?

First, you really ought to stop talking to people when they ask you too. It took me a long time to learn this lesson too, partly because most people live too afraid to tell you direct.

Second, I should have dropped the bullshit and been cool with this guy. I've never not had a good laugh with a guy from Nepal. Many of my most meaningful conversations have been with a drunken man from the high mountains.

But.

If a person says to leave them alone, leave them the fuck alone (unless they're hurting somebody else).

Later I am on 46th. I have just discovered the Psychedelic Assembly. which I will join if it's not a front for a venture cap-intrusion into the psychedelics space.

I sat on their couch for a few, and found this incredible book:

I spill out of the PA in a bit of a daze. As I told a friend last night, walking in Greenwood Cemetery, "Sometimes it's hard not to feel like the main character."

Then we saw some skunks and she said "When I was a girl I loved 3 animals, and one of them was skunks."

"Now you're the main character," I said.

We all are, from time to time.

But I'm on 46th.

A heavy set black man in his 50s approaches me.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure" I says.

"Oh thank you," he says, but gets distracted and goes for a handshake, and then a hug. I let him hug me. I hug him back. Dudes need hugs.

Then he's standing real close to me on the empty sidewalk, and he says, "Can I ask you a question?"

I think I know what question is coming, I could say no right now, but it's rude to assume, so I let him ask.

"I'm 8 dollars short."

"I'm sorry man," I say. "I don't have it."

"Man oh I see how it is. Fucking nothing. Can't help when it matters."

On the one hand, he's got a point. White guys will always want to be down if it doesn't cost us anything.

But I also just shook this stranger's hand and hugged him on 46th street, and listened to him, and if that has no value, then the hug is just a con.

I ain't got $8 bucks for you, and I certainly don't owe it to you because we were nice to each other on the street.

"Oh, I see. The money is all that matters to you." Then, for the second time in a day, "FUCK OFF BRO. I'm trying to be human with you."

He backs off. "Alright, alright." And we leave it at that. He heads east, I go west.

The wander continues.

DF

Written across 3 sessions: 2 in the Rose Main Reading Room and one at Fiction in Williamsburg.