Today it has rained for something like eighteen hours, and maybe even longer than that . . . I left Monty’s apartment in the early afternoon to grab supplies during what seemed like a brief respite, only to be caught up in a biblical storm within minutes of exiting the building. I had no umbrella and so, having no alternative, I let it drench me to the bone. And yet I did not mind being wet. It was a warm summer day and the rain was warm as well . . . it just felt like walking beneath a tropical waterfall. Everyone stood beneath the eaves of storefronts and watched the streets turn into rivers of rainwater.
Back home I made coffee and ate my overpriced parfait. I changed into Comfy Pants and retreated to Monty’s room to watch movies with dear Bilbo, who curled up like a little black caterpillar, as is his wont, upon the pillow next to mine.
Now it is nearly three in the morning and the rain is still coming down hard outside . . . fortunately I am still in Monty’s high tower in Ridgewood with Bilbo, and we’re still watching movies. Monty is at her boyfriend’s place doing the same, albeit without the radiant comfort of Bilbo’s stoner-sage presence. I love being around Bilbo. He is pure in heart.
Last December, a few days before Christmas, and a few days before I was apprehended at the US-Canadian border north of Seattle (seriously), I watched Bilbo at Monty’s parents’ house in Portland while they were driving around the great state of Idaho to scope out a new place to live. I turned on the electric fireplace and he and I spent the whole weekend just hanging out and getting stoned and watching movies about medieval knights and rogues (such was our theme). Bilbo seems to regard me as a sort of surrogate Monty when Monty is away. He knows that Monty is my sister, and thus I am his uncle, and so he trusts me to take care of him.
In the (late) morning I am going to wake up and take a shower and hop on the subway in the direction of Park Slope to meet my niece, who is a newborn baby named Rooney. I have a feeling she’s awake right now, just as I am. It is not just that I can sense her psychic energy floating across Brooklyn (which I can) . . . rather, I actually have privileged intel on this matter direct from her own mother:
After holding this sweet baby child for as long as they’ll let me, I will then travel to Williamsburg to attend the birthday party of a cat I know. Her name is Kitten and she’s turning sixteen. Before moving back to Portland, friend Molly used to live with Kitten, and is still friends with her owner . . . and seeing as how the two of us just so happen to be in New York, and my being invited and all, we’re going to show up and celebrate this cat’s long life. Kitten and I have a rapport. She was always very sweet to me whenever I visited Molly.
Well . . . I reckon I’ll tuck myself into bed and see what happens. Perhaps my body will allow me to sleep and dream, though I am betting it won’t. Worst case scenario, I will lie here in the darkness and listen to the rain and the ambient sounds of Monty’s neighborhood. Why not! It’s my PENULTIMATE NIGHT here before I catch a thirteen-hour train to Montreal. It’s a bittersweet thing, you know . . . I won’t be able to return here till November. I’ve got about three or four thousand miles of rough road to cross before I make my way back around to New York. And maybe somewhere between here and there and now and then I’ll have another visit from Mr. Dead. There are only so many times you can cross this guy before it’s the last time you cross him. To be honest, I wouldn’t put up a fight either way.
