I bike to SOHO.
I carry my (sky blue) fleece coat (with a periwinkle zipper) into the Patagonia store on Wooster Street. The zipper is broken. The pretty counter girl and the soft, malleable manager, assist me carefully - me with my cane (made from an apple-tree branch) - me with my modest low energy.
(My gentle composure feels like an act - I'm not soft spoken and patient, I'm a jaded -I want it now! New York type. (I won't go into a store with a line. I just walk to the next one. The confusion of a store like Macy's makes me mad).
"Would you like to sit down and rest your legs, sir?"
"Thank you, yes," I whisper. I'm so dear and fragile.
The kind store manager retreats to the back room to fix the zipper.
I sit on a bench by the display window. I am an old man, over-taxed from just getting to the store.
My normal mode would be to case the joint -paw my way through all the merchandise, try on six or seven things and buy nothing. Today, I sit on the bench and stare into space. I check my iphone.
There is beautiful outdoorsy youth here. Kids in their twenties who get high from the right parka for their weekend tenting in upstate New York. This is something I aspired to. This was next on my list.
I don't dare think past my present situation to what is denied me. Luckily, my mind stops to what is available to me right now. Perhaps this containment is physiologically programmed in each one of us. The sense of loss would decimate.
When the store manager returns, he tells me (more than once) to come back anytime and exchange it for a new coat.
"But the coat you have now is actually made better than the newer ones... you might want to hang onto it."
He tells me they'll donate my blue (azure?) coat to charity or recycle the polyester fleece. They're not in business to make money, they're here to keep people warm.
I carry my (sky blue) fleece coat (with a periwinkle zipper) into the Patagonia store on Wooster Street. The zipper is broken. The pretty counter girl and the soft, malleable manager, assist me carefully - me with my cane (made from an apple-tree branch) - me with my modest low energy.
(My gentle composure feels like an act - I'm not soft spoken and patient, I'm a jaded -I want it now! New York type. (I won't go into a store with a line. I just walk to the next one. The confusion of a store like Macy's makes me mad).
"Would you like to sit down and rest your legs, sir?"
"Thank you, yes," I whisper. I'm so dear and fragile.
The kind store manager retreats to the back room to fix the zipper.
I sit on a bench by the display window. I am an old man, over-taxed from just getting to the store.
My normal mode would be to case the joint -paw my way through all the merchandise, try on six or seven things and buy nothing. Today, I sit on the bench and stare into space. I check my iphone.
There is beautiful outdoorsy youth here. Kids in their twenties who get high from the right parka for their weekend tenting in upstate New York. This is something I aspired to. This was next on my list.
I don't dare think past my present situation to what is denied me. Luckily, my mind stops to what is available to me right now. Perhaps this containment is physiologically programmed in each one of us. The sense of loss would decimate.
When the store manager returns, he tells me (more than once) to come back anytime and exchange it for a new coat.
"But the coat you have now is actually made better than the newer ones... you might want to hang onto it."
He tells me they'll donate my blue (azure?) coat to charity or recycle the polyester fleece. They're not in business to make money, they're here to keep people warm.
Back to my bike, I'm feeling vulnerable. The getting (on and off) of my bike is more precarious (for now). I will get better. I need to relax, focus, slow down. Like the tightrope walker in "MAN ON WIRE" (I saw it last night on my laptop) straddling my bike requires great slow precision, which I enjoy.
I'm starving in SOHO and I consider (giving in) and eating at Ben's Pizza. But I've committed to no wheat or dairy.
Voices (in my head) offer conflicting directives.
Voices (in my head) offer conflicting directives.
"Eat whatever you can, whenever you can!"
"You must detoxify, eat only the purest foods and liquids!"
Yet another voice suggests riding around the block. Investigate.
I follow this suggestion and lock my bike up near a quiet, drab restaurant on the corner of Sixth and Prince. I can't make out the sign, but the plain facade speaks healthy honest food.
I cross the street with some trouble and discover that the
it's organic macrobiotic.
Souern (www.souen.net)
Inside, the bland atmosphere matches the wholesome cuisine.
(I imagine Gwyneth Paltrow slumming here).
I have a platter of steamed vegetables (nicely seasoned) with brown rice, and while I eat, I read "Eric is Winning". This book is inspirational. It gives me ideas. I'm grateful he wrote it.
(I discover the whey isolate protein I've been ingesting daily, is a source of MSG.
MSG releases glutamate to the brain and short circuits it.
I've been eating whey isolate protein to retain body mass, and because (I read) it's a cheap way to produce more glutathione (the main antioxidant) of the body). Argh!
(I discover the whey isolate protein I've been ingesting daily, is a source of MSG.
MSG releases glutamate to the brain and short circuits it.
I've been eating whey isolate protein to retain body mass, and because (I read) it's a cheap way to produce more glutathione (the main antioxidant) of the body). Argh!
At Church. An excellent meeting. All of the speakers are so articulate!!
(There is no disease. There is only belief in disease).
(There is no disease. There is only belief in disease).
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