A few strange things happened.
The night that Ava abandoned me, I made my way back to SF city, wandered around and slept on doorsteps to avoid the rain and other strangers in the SF night. Two nice young men arrived home late to find me on their doorsteps. I apologized and explained that I knew it was obnoxious and bothersome for me to have been there. They were polite and one asked, "Where will you go?" and I said that I didn't know but smiled and waved goodbye. He told me to be careful. I wonder if I had explained my circumstance he would have let me stay there, but at this point I was very suspicious of hospitality.
Another night I stayed at a place called Soma Inn or hostel or something, having received a Western Union from some one that was short of the amount needed to fly back to NYC. I spent this instead on (H) & Cava - Friexenet.
The next night I met some strange man named John who told me early on that he was a speed addict. I told John that I would cover his half of a double hostel room, the number of which turned out to be room #222. and explained that it was just me being nice and that I didn't want any sex or anything; in fact I love pussy.
We chill out and later he throws a bit of a fit because I won't buy him drugs. We part ways in the Castro. I am uncertain why he believed he should return.
I wake up very early, and I am happy to not find John there. I go to the taxi company to retrieve my bag which has been held hostage since the falling through of prenegotiated fare arrangements. When I come back to the hostel and open the door to room #222, I find John masturbating to straight porn Or he is nodded-out post masturbation. I ask him to put himself away and he slowly and passively in rebellion does so, but not without pleading some case of inconvenience. I dealt with it all in stride.
On another night, perhaps that one, I decide to go out to Ocean Beach, on a whim and because I have little else to do. It's lovely. The beach lets me sleep for a while. Then I get cold. Some how, I suppose I was keeping my eyes open for a place to stay for a while, I found and empty apartment near the ocean. There were sliding glass doors. I entered and cautiously explored my potential new digs. I was ecstatic about having the quiet sanctuary of an empty apartment. It reminded me of the old days with Erik.
The place was strange, and there was a sort of system of plastic curtained separations in the apartment, along with industrial cleaning vacuums equipped with venting tubing which exhausted to the outside after being filtered. Then I notice the hallway entrance door is a sort of plastic quarantine lock, and read a posted large sign only visible from the outside of the door.
It read biological gear is required due to a fungal contamination. !!! I began to pray, and consider my options. I could go to a hospital, I could go jump in the ocean, burn all of my things, I could call the E.P.A, I could do nothing. I think to myself that I've already very likely exposed myself to anything present and wonder how peculiar it is that the neighboring adjacents were occupied. Hopefully I took a photo. I also had daydreams about contracting some awful Andromeda strain type of lung infection, and think of myself dying such an absurd death so far away from anyone who cared. I also considered that the sign and the plastics were designed to scare off squatters, but decide that to be unlikely. I go to sleep, in prayer, thinking of Daniel in a den of lions the size of microbial spores.
The guy John writes me some email, but I have left his stuff, as I said I would, on the sidewalk after waiting for an hour. I felt like I ordered french toast that morning, the one before the E.P.A. squat.
I called Jason and asked him to write down an address in case something happened to me.So far, I seem to be OK, excluding the fact that I am an alcoholic drug addict. Soon after, I am on a plane back to Islip, very early in the morning, without money but relieved for the flight. Hungover.
Having spent the night fending off an old gay Irishman, who was bald and in an all-too-scary way.
I stayed in a hostel called "The World" or something very near to the Soma Inn. I drank a couple of days away, organizing finally a ticket purchased to go home, wherever that is, probably NYC.
Since I landed in Islip, which is far from The City, on Labor day or Memorial day or whichever one is in the spring, without any cash, I had to convince this woman and her family of sons to give me a lift to the train. There I met an older couple in their 60s. The man asked me which was it was to NYC on the LIRR, so I gave him directions relative to the Sun. The sun sets in the west, and we wanted to go west.
It turns out that he was a fighter pilot on the early jet fighters. I guessed I believed him, but it seemed that he would be so directionally challenged. His wife bought me a ticket for the train and he made it clear that it was his wife's generosity and not his. I appreciated that statement. It touched me for some reason.
At around 9 I arrived in Brooklyn, stayed with Andrea and Matt, and then proceeded to try to make arrangements to get to France. Benjamin left on a flight that very day and needed money. I was able to get it to him and took him as far as the shuttle from Port Authority to EWR.
Some few days passed and I worked out a ticket with Andrew, who cashed a check for me. I flew to Paris CDG on June 3rd / 4th then took a train to Bayonne where I met up with Ben & Co.
I was mortally drunk by the time I arrived in Bayonne, some 24 hours after leaving NYC. I believed I was stuck, and I was. David Tullio could have helped me, and would have, but we were having difficulties communicating. Anyway, I'm not sure how good my credit is with him.
And so, this is the beginning of my stay in France.
The night that Ava abandoned me, I made my way back to SF city, wandered around and slept on doorsteps to avoid the rain and other strangers in the SF night. Two nice young men arrived home late to find me on their doorsteps. I apologized and explained that I knew it was obnoxious and bothersome for me to have been there. They were polite and one asked, "Where will you go?" and I said that I didn't know but smiled and waved goodbye. He told me to be careful. I wonder if I had explained my circumstance he would have let me stay there, but at this point I was very suspicious of hospitality.
Another night I stayed at a place called Soma Inn or hostel or something, having received a Western Union from some one that was short of the amount needed to fly back to NYC. I spent this instead on (H) & Cava - Friexenet.
The next night I met some strange man named John who told me early on that he was a speed addict. I told John that I would cover his half of a double hostel room, the number of which turned out to be room #222. and explained that it was just me being nice and that I didn't want any sex or anything; in fact I love pussy.
We chill out and later he throws a bit of a fit because I won't buy him drugs. We part ways in the Castro. I am uncertain why he believed he should return.
I wake up very early, and I am happy to not find John there. I go to the taxi company to retrieve my bag which has been held hostage since the falling through of prenegotiated fare arrangements. When I come back to the hostel and open the door to room #222, I find John masturbating to straight porn Or he is nodded-out post masturbation. I ask him to put himself away and he slowly and passively in rebellion does so, but not without pleading some case of inconvenience. I dealt with it all in stride.
On another night, perhaps that one, I decide to go out to Ocean Beach, on a whim and because I have little else to do. It's lovely. The beach lets me sleep for a while. Then I get cold. Some how, I suppose I was keeping my eyes open for a place to stay for a while, I found and empty apartment near the ocean. There were sliding glass doors. I entered and cautiously explored my potential new digs. I was ecstatic about having the quiet sanctuary of an empty apartment. It reminded me of the old days with Erik.
The place was strange, and there was a sort of system of plastic curtained separations in the apartment, along with industrial cleaning vacuums equipped with venting tubing which exhausted to the outside after being filtered. Then I notice the hallway entrance door is a sort of plastic quarantine lock, and read a posted large sign only visible from the outside of the door.
It read biological gear is required due to a fungal contamination. !!! I began to pray, and consider my options. I could go to a hospital, I could go jump in the ocean, burn all of my things, I could call the E.P.A, I could do nothing. I think to myself that I've already very likely exposed myself to anything present and wonder how peculiar it is that the neighboring adjacents were occupied. Hopefully I took a photo. I also had daydreams about contracting some awful Andromeda strain type of lung infection, and think of myself dying such an absurd death so far away from anyone who cared. I also considered that the sign and the plastics were designed to scare off squatters, but decide that to be unlikely. I go to sleep, in prayer, thinking of Daniel in a den of lions the size of microbial spores.
The guy John writes me some email, but I have left his stuff, as I said I would, on the sidewalk after waiting for an hour. I felt like I ordered french toast that morning, the one before the E.P.A. squat.
I called Jason and asked him to write down an address in case something happened to me.So far, I seem to be OK, excluding the fact that I am an alcoholic drug addict. Soon after, I am on a plane back to Islip, very early in the morning, without money but relieved for the flight. Hungover.
Having spent the night fending off an old gay Irishman, who was bald and in an all-too-scary way.
I stayed in a hostel called "The World" or something very near to the Soma Inn. I drank a couple of days away, organizing finally a ticket purchased to go home, wherever that is, probably NYC.
Since I landed in Islip, which is far from The City, on Labor day or Memorial day or whichever one is in the spring, without any cash, I had to convince this woman and her family of sons to give me a lift to the train. There I met an older couple in their 60s. The man asked me which was it was to NYC on the LIRR, so I gave him directions relative to the Sun. The sun sets in the west, and we wanted to go west.
It turns out that he was a fighter pilot on the early jet fighters. I guessed I believed him, but it seemed that he would be so directionally challenged. His wife bought me a ticket for the train and he made it clear that it was his wife's generosity and not his. I appreciated that statement. It touched me for some reason.
At around 9 I arrived in Brooklyn, stayed with Andrea and Matt, and then proceeded to try to make arrangements to get to France. Benjamin left on a flight that very day and needed money. I was able to get it to him and took him as far as the shuttle from Port Authority to EWR.
Some few days passed and I worked out a ticket with Andrew, who cashed a check for me. I flew to Paris CDG on June 3rd / 4th then took a train to Bayonne where I met up with Ben & Co.
I was mortally drunk by the time I arrived in Bayonne, some 24 hours after leaving NYC. I believed I was stuck, and I was. David Tullio could have helped me, and would have, but we were having difficulties communicating. Anyway, I'm not sure how good my credit is with him.
And so, this is the beginning of my stay in France.
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