Boulevard

I feel like a bit of a twad living in New York and shopping at Target, but I was just sorta there when the pants called to me.

My plan was to visit Fresh Meadows. The Q88 bus to Fresh Meadows leaves from somewhere near Queens Place, a small mall which houses Target.

I describe it as small because it is small. I grew up in Florida where (as in most parts of the country/world) a mall covers many square miles in floorspace and parking lot. The only NYC mall I know that approaches that coverage is the Staten Island Mall, though I hear the Metro Mall in Maspeth (mmm) is relatively vast.

I heard something funny at the Target store today. A voice, which I thought was directed at me, said "Yo, look at this underwear."

Turning to see who might have said this to me, the person clarified: "Vito, come look at this underwear."

My name is not Vito. I turned away, letting escape from my mind the cultural space of men who shop together for underwear at Target.

I walked from Target back to my place. As the crow flies (or as I like to say: as the flow cries) the walk is only about 5 miles, but today it felt far longer. I have been tired and feeling weird the last couple of weeks. My sleep patterns are all over the place, and I bolt awake for no reason I can remember. A couple of mornings ago I jolted awake three times thinking I heard cracking noises -- like pops or thunderclaps -- inside my head. I have also burst awake thinking I heard a split second of thunderous laughter.

I did this same walk down Queens Boulevard last January, after an appointment with an eye specialist. After an hour of prodding my eyeballs with tiny steel spoons and giving me little confidence that my macular degeneration was anything but serious I wound up nearly blind from those wicked drops he used to dilate my pupils. I was badly depressed before and after that appointment (it was one of several), and the long walk back blew past in no time.

It was 70° today. I felt gawky walking down Queens Boulevard with a giant, pants-filled Target shopping bag. They had only the largest size bags at the store. They weerr out of the smaller bags. The guy in line in front of me bought a comic book and replacement blades for a Norelco electric razor. These relatively diminutive purchases were tossed into a mammoth Target bag, a bag big enough for two or three king size pillows or even a small mattress.

My pants filled a smiliarly enormous bag, a bag loudly speckled with bright red targets, Target© branding, and an inane list of things one could do to get additional, eco-friendly use of the bag before disposing of it.

A half mile or so into my walk I stopped and took off my top shirt. 70° was too hot for a heavy Woolrich shirt and a t-shirt underneath. I put the Woolrich into the Target bag, adding to the weight of all those pants (and shorts) and other items I threw in the bag -- including this amazing foldable keyboard.

I saw the Georgia Diner. Since a friend pointed out that the peach in the diner's logo looks like a vagina I can not see it as anything but that. Mmmm.

I saw the POP Diner. A year or so back I ate there with some documentary film makers/songsters. I managed to make myself useful to them by directing them to points of interest at Calvary Cemetery and New Calvary Cemetery, and they bought me a burger in return.

I can not remember any of those fine folks' names...

I passed those hourly rate motels. Queens Motor Lodge is one. I think 30 dollars for 3 hours used to be their Valentines Day special. I haven't noticed lately but their advertising used to shamelessly cater to the hookers/johns crowd.

And I saw a country of other stuff on Queens Boulevard. Who the hell cares. I was tired and oblivious, but felt better as the walk reached the half way point. The pops and snaps in my head receded as the afternoon trailed on. I do not know what is up with those crazy sounds in my head. Fortunately common sense remains to remind me that the sound of a car horn blasting could not possibly have come from the upstairs apartment or from my teeth.

I eventually passed the Flux Factory, an artists' commune and performance space which will soon be demolished. I never quite trusted that place as an art house but I liked knowing they were there on that bowels-like block of 43rd Street. Bowelsian. Bowelsesque.

I have not had as much time for these long walks as in months past. Things pile up. Things. I have been composing at the piano for longer hours -- longer than before. A lot of disciplines are like this, but I believe that composing or writing are creative endeavors which demand hours of time every single day. Composing is something which, if you are not doing it at least 6 or 7 hours a day every day then you might as well not be doing it. Others say that 6 or 7 hours is a joke, and that 12 to 14 hours a day is a realistic commitment if your work is to be taken even a little bit seriouly. I don't think I buy that. It smacks of the collegiate "pull an all-nighter" mentality.

I do not know what I am talking about. Nothing new there.