Wednesday 7/31/24
There's a homeless man who's been sleeping in North Square. Lately I've also been seeing him a lot at a cafe I go to. He stands--I think for hours--in the same spot, facing the wall, the palms of his hands turned upwards, almost like he's praying. Ordinarily he doesn't say anything, save to mumble to himself, or at least I had never seen him say anything to anyone.
Today at the cafe that was different. He came over to where I was sitting--which was across from the door--and told me that I couldn't have his legs or his feet. I said--sincerely, in a friendly way--that I wouldn't think of it. Then he said that he was a nation of seven million people and he would fucking kill me. He'd stab me in the eyes and there was nothing that could save me and he was telling me this to protect me.
This was less than ideal. He wouldn't go away, and he kept saying these things and how I would be fucking dead soon.
Again, in a friendly manner, I told him that I appreciated the warning. I also gave him the most sincere thumbs up I could muster. Well, this kept going on, and finally a couple women who work at the cafe came out and told the man he had to leave. He made like he was going to charge at them, and clapped violently. They were scared and jumped back, and he said, "I don't fight, I don't fight." A guy who worked there came out, and eventually the man left.
He has really long hair, and he looked, to me, to be an older man. His face was obscured, his skin aged where it's exposed; for instance, he always has one of the legs of his sweatpants--which are Harvard sweatpants--pulled up over the calf.
But when he was saying what he was saying to me, I realized how youthful he was. His voice, even his face. It was very sad.
Life, you know?
Other things. About to be done with three new stories. One of them was written on Sunday, I think it was. Quite a mess. I knew what I was going to be doing subsequently was copying the text, putting it into a new document, changing it from first person to third person, and making it over, out of the block that was there. That happened Monday, and I've been working on it since.
I walked three miles today, did 100 push-ups, and completed five circuits of stairs in the Bunker Hill Monument. This was not a crisp stair workout. The humidity pulled me down some, but I got it done. I've been having some problems with my lower back lately. I became worried it was because of colon cancer. I can't have cancer on my plate right now. A friend said it wasn't colon cancer, it was probably the stairs and the push-ups. I think it's more likely the u-shaped mattress I have and will be stuck with for at least another two months. Anyway, my friend suggested doing planks, so I did five of those. I don't know how long I did it the first two times for, but the last three times was a minute each, because I timed it. Those are hard, huh? I'm definitely not so good at these yet.
I need to get these Beatles pieces done, write something on Keats, do a piece on the score of Bride of Frankenstein, and get back to "Finder of Views," one of the novelettes.
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