This Has Got To Come To A Resolution

Another week went by without me picking up my phone and calling the lady at the reconstruction center who could help me get out of my impending eviction from Sacred Heart Mode.

The irony is that people from loneliness, in 2013, saw in me the type of person who would never help themselves. I think my late father used to describe me as: “He doesn’t even know enough to get out of the rain!”

And so arrangements were made to help me out of the street, where it seemed evident that I was well settled, under the wharf with my pet rats, my 4-foot alligator, and a black-clad heron who would visit me for a few months during the summer, Before returning to Michigan or elsewhere in late October.

Now, I will probably book an appointment with the mental health department at Daughter’s of Charity, who keeps sending me information about all the services I am entitled to, as a member of whatever I am a member of.

I can sit down with a psychiatrist and explain how I keep putting off a call that will likely ward off eviction from my apartment.

I originally had a case worker assigned to me named Tim. I thought it unnecessary to come every Monday for a “wellness” check. And that he’ll poll me to make sure nothing’s bothering me, etc.

It will only be the person to call Mrs. Lee and get me an extension to pay any rent I owe for the place.

But, Tim has been laid off, so no more health checks. Now two weeks must pass and people must complain about the bad smell before finding out that a resident is unwell.

Existing staff, I think they are working against me. Since the pest control guy allowed himself into my apartment about two years ago, when I wasn’t home, to spray, and I saw a picture of Donald Trump, I originally hung it easily, and I probably had it on a plot. The dart board that Bobby once gave me.

I gave it back to him, so he could give it to someone else, saying I had enough music, reading, writing, exercise, jigsaw puzzle making, drawing, computer programming, computer art, computerized music recording, taking care of the cat… Enthusiasm…without adding the quest for mastery darts to this mixture. Because I knew myself so well. I would make up little games like I did once when I lived in a house with a pool table downstairs. I used to see how many shots it would take to sink all 15 balls, and I would spend 3 hours a night on that. (I think I got 13 shots; two balls sank at once while running.)

So, no dart board. But, over time, I decided to leave the image of Trump up because I started to see how much he was being cursed in certain circles, and for what (or, no reasons) and began to realize that people who “hated” were pretty much the types I didn’t want to be around.

At least one person has unsubscribed to my Youtube channel after I posted a video in which an image of Trump can be seen in certain footage; Far to the side, however; he was there …
I haven’t heard from anyone, for example, Craig Nelson, who used to comment on this blog about 30 minutes ago after this video went live…

And so the bug guy walked into my apartment and definitely saw a picture of Trump. The next morning I got a notice of “unsanitary conditions” reported by the pest control man, who noticed food on the counter in the kitchen and an unkempt litter box on the floor, smelling of cat feces.

Then, I had to get rid of two native plants I was growing, after a maintenance worker, who let himself in with his own key to change the light bulb when I wasn’t home – after I explicitly told security to a lady when I was there to let the guy notice. The same person who walked in on Bobby to smoke some of what the latter grew up in for him Treasury…
All of these people are African American, except for the pest control guy, by the way.

The lady of security at the front, a woman of heavy brown, informs all the black residents when there is food to be distributed; or when there is a birthday party for the Sacred Heart with a meal served and bags full of hygiene items; But she would only communicate with me by waving her face at my sight, as if she was smelling something; Maybe cat feces.

I always see the maintenance worker hanging around and talking to her; So it’s easy to theorize that if they had to make sure that the monthly notifications telling me I had to pay $36 a month, from the pandemic and unemployment assistance I was getting, I wouldn’t have made it under my door; Then the people in the office in my delinquent ad would start a month, then two, then three etc. Call the Sheriff’s Office!! kind of thing.

Then came the “5 days to vacate the building or pay the full amount” notice. A couple of days ago, I heard a knock on my door that I wasn’t sure if it was at my door. It looked as if someone was naturally knocking on one of the other doors in the hallway. But, when I got up from my bed and went to the door, I opened it to see who was already escaping into the stairwell speculum of Ray, who is supposed to be the default case officer for anyone who was laid off. He’s another African American who never followed through on anything he talked about helping me with.

It was as if he wanted to be seen on the building cameras, apparently knocking on my door, to get an update on my rental status; Then I wouldn’t respond to his knock, were it not for me sitting there without TV or music. He was doing everything he could to try to help me; I’m just not going to even answer my door, kind of thing…

But, I think that was cathartic because it dawned on me that my next step should be to email Heather, who is offsite and is basically Ray’s boss. She’s the one who emailed her about a month ago thanking me for doing it (“communicating,” as she puts it. What a millennial) and telling me she didn’t know what or what He was going with me. I think she sent Ray to knock on my door and then he shrugs and he didn’t manage to contact me..

So, this is what I will do now; Email Heather.

Maybe it will help me stop thinking about the last evening, listed below, written before the above things…

last evening

The temperature was rising this evening. after I got up about six in the evening and got out of the house, it was so cold that I thought I was not going to go out and play, but at some point I would put on sweaters and jackets and ride to get groceries; Then stay in.

Had I forced myself out around 9 pm, thinking I would play as long as I could bear it; Until my fingers went numb and I started missing a few notes; I would have noticed the bliss of warm air blowing inside and would probably have had within a couple of hours of playing and I would have made good money.

This shot, taken at 2:14 am, tells me I was going to make good money. The full video shows people stumbling, laughing, and enjoying the weather which saw the temperature being about 15 degrees higher than when I made my fateful decision.

A part of me was struggling with the inner struggle that comes from knowing that as soon as I make money there, I’ll run for a pint of brandy, and then go back to the playing place, where someone will surely come with the joint light and give me some; Then on my way home I will buy a nicotine vape. Getting two boxes of food for Harold would become the only noble purpose my foray into the night would serve. I’ll probably stop by on the way home to replenish my kratom stock with a 3 ounce bag, money that I would surely have made on such a lovely night.

This has to come to a solution.

If I can’t go there with just a liter of spring water and play music without smoking or drinking, I might apply for a job at Winn Dixie.

I think one improvement I can make right away is to not stay up until noon and then sleep until 8pm and face having to go out and play before I’m fully awake. I’ve done this before and it always worked. I found myself fully awake and glad I got out; And I shuddered when I thought to myself I’m going to stay and watch YouTube all night…

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