The SoHo cat and his self-portrait

He took this picture himself, on my computer. He told me to splash it around the internet a little, raise his profile. Man, I'm stuck in this apartment the whole time, he said. How can I get famous when I spend all day indoors, right in the centre of the centre of the universe, here in SoHo? Man, the lousy ironies life throws at you sometimes.. I see it all from the window, and I want a part of it, man. I wanna get PAID..

What can I do but oblige a downtown cat?

Green on Orange

He's got a red plastic badge on his lapel. It reads, "Drug Free". He's about 75, black, wearing a faded suit. He walks through the subway car with some bright green sheets of A4 paper, placing one carefully beside each seated passenger, like a schoolteacher dispersing handouts through a classroom. No one moves, responds, or says a word.

As he reaches the other end of the car, he turns and returns down the car, picking the sheets up again. He passes me without collecting the sheet beside me, he notices that I'm reading, and so leaves me be until the very end, and mine is the last sheet to be collected. I'm probably the only one who has shown any interest in even glancing at his tale of woe, his interface with the world. There's a handful of sentences written in black biro, badly photocopied. He had probably sat down at his kitchen table with someone who could write and spell good, to work out what he could possibly say to explain himself in words.

In the short letter, he describes how he was "pushed from a high porch" sometime in his childhood, and some years later began to get epileptic fits and blackouts. "From 1952 - 62 I was strong and healthy", it said. "I am also a James Brown imitator. I consider myself to be a good artist. Please help as much as you can. Yours sincerely, --- ----". Underneath, a black thumb-sized smudge that has the silhouette of a passport photo, and a photocopy of some rubberstamped, slightly official looking text that said "James Brown" in heavy typeset, probably some fan club membership letter that he was sent back in the sixties, maybe during that golden period of his life.

Finally, he comes to me. "Are you finished?", he asks me. "Yes", I answer, "thanks very much". "You're welcome", he replies. And he picks up the lime green sheet, replaces it to the pile in his hand, and falls back into the orange bucket seat, with a sigh.

And the train goes across the bridge, and Manhattan's twinkling nightlights get closer, and soon our D train is sucked in, sucked in... The doors open at Grand street. He heaves himself up out of his seat, out of the train, and across the platform.

From the mean streets of Manhattan to the Limerick Hilton

I love watching footage of Manhattan from the seventies. Back in the time when Manhattan had neighbourhoods, when it was LIVING. Even when it's just a movie, but shot on the streets. Have you seen a movie called Cool Breeze? Some minor blaxploitation movie, sort of Shaft-like, set on the wild west streets and formica diners of newyorkcityland when they were wild and the men wore tight blue jeans and slang was jiving. And when the lay of the land was being carved up between black brothers and Irish cops. Jesus, the history of the Irish in America is AMAZINGLY interesting to me. Anyway, this movie is fabulous. Classic Irish brute v Nigguh brute battles in wartorn new york city, when Sistah Giuliani wasn't even an evil glint in a poof-fro'd pimp's eye.

Got sorted out last night by Polly Harvey and Lenny Bruce. I no longer feel alone in the world. Oh, and an interview with an Irish novelist called Anne Enright, who is just clearly a ROCKA. I want to read her books now. Or chat with her. Something. Felt like I was losing my soul yesterday. My sense of humour drained away like the colour from my cheeks. My cough is getting stronger. It feels like something pretty big is making its way into the world through my heaving chest.

I'm writing this in the Hilton. A little girl and a little boy have just passed where I'm sitting in the lobby. They are about eight years old. The little girl is in charge. She says to the little boy: "This I have to show you, just this and one more thing. This is my secret passage." And she shows him, and the little boy says, "cool". And then they have a very involved conversation in the secret passage. He asks her all sorts of questions about it. He seems to be particularly interested in the geography of the area, and the logistics of how to drive a car through it. She is more than adept to show him around, and orientate him. She sings as she shows. Then they have a conversation about the night he spent in Ennis, and she does a little step dancing.

And then off they go so she can show him the one more thing.

Latest news about the Park Slope Lunatic

He gave me a dirty look last night, and didn't even bother to shake his can at me. And definitely no comments about my outfit.

The park slope lunatic

Did I write about the lunatic I saw recently? An actual lunatic human being, out on the street, uncared for. He's a park slope regular, what we'd call a character, in Dublin. Well, I had a human, friendly interaction with him, yesterday. He shakes a starbucks carton out there on 7th ave, looking for change. He's got about 10 plastic bags with stuff in them, and each plastic bag is really more a of a unit of plastic bags, probably about 10 of them doubled up and frayed and filthy, forming each unit.

Anyway, last night we said howrya, and it was honest, low-key, casual and true. It was nice to see his human face. So this evening, I emptied out my loose change and dropped it in his can. "Them's really nice earrings" he says, dropping compliments for hopes of cash reward the way the guy who stands by the Flatbush 7th ave Q train entrance does.

That was such a fucking pity.

Back in Whippet City

I'm whippet-sitting for the week.

God, it was such a gorgeous day today. It is definitely autumn, and though there are still a few valiant flip-floppers grooving around still, in their shorts, the time for the summer is past past past. The leaves are already crinkly and covering the ground.

I brought the ladies, as I call them, for a walk in the park and then up to my flat, and back home through the park. It's like walking around with a pair of supermodels, or mother teresa. They spread joy and happiness where e'er they go. Handsome men turn to smile fondly as they speed through the park on their high tech racing bikes; groups of 13 year old black children feel they can make contact. All sorts of people stop to marvel at the Amazing Whippets. Especially today, because they were out in their green sweatshirts, which make them look a bit like supermodels slumming it, or those incredibly rich old people you sometimes see wandering around the upper east side in their knickers with several nurses attending them. God save us from yes-men.

But with two sanguine whippets at hand, you get to talk to so many people you probably wouldn't otherwise. The funny thing is, most people say, knowingly, "Italian greyhounds, right?" with a little wink. They screw up their noses when they hear "Whippets, actually."

I've been through this drill so many times I should seriously consider making an application as some sort of tour guide to the International Whippet Association. People ask if they're friendly, as the ladies strain at the leash to get away. "Well, they're not really that bothered, as far as I can tell. They're not either friendly or unfriendly, most of the time. I think they usually don't notice other living things. Except squirrels. They are passionate about squirrels. They sort of do their own thing, you know?" I like to think I'm doing my bit for Global Whippet Consciousness Raising. Sometimes it Feels Good to Capitalise.

Overheard this evening, in the park:

Elderly Austro-German type, full white head of hair and full white beard, speaking in a thick Austrian accent, complete with the hugely enjoyable Germanic zz's. He's talking very quickly and very very enthusiastically to a delighted, giggling elderly lady.

Zo I vonder, what do zey vant viz me, vhen ze place eez zo full of zientists.. And zen I figured it out! I landed in August, and zix monthz later zey land on ze moon - ZAT is why zey vanted me! Of course!!

Some people you just want to make friends with on the spot. Even if just for a short while.

Tonight I am off to the great Entertainment Soup Kitchen that is Freddy's Backroom bar. This evening's sustainence is a comedy stew, with a light chat for afters.

Prospect Heights can man

Hey Sweep, what cho doin?
Sweep, I'm yo mistress. I'm yo bride n I'm yo groom.
Whatcha know, Sweep?

I don't have no dollars.
I'm on social security.
I'm retired.

One block west of Bedford

Mummy, I heard flames.
Mmm hmm?
When we get some money, I shall buy two cars. Two cars. Two cars.
Silence.
Two cars!

He is a young deeply conservative black man, aged six.

But why, though?

Little boy and his grandmother, on the train.
Where we going?
We're going to see mommy and auntie Jinny.
But why, though?
We're going to get out here at the next stop.
But WHY, though?
Because mommy is at Auntie Jinny's, and we're going to see them now.
But WHY, THOUGH? Huh?
Silence.
Huh? HUH?

We meet again.. and again

It happens all the time. Casual conversation, getting lively, getting on a roll, both people sharing the experience happily and sharing their observations about life and agreeing wholeheartedly with each other. Then something else takes over.

The agreeing just takes on a life of its own. The whole thing becomes about agreeing with each other, even when it's just a load of bollocks. He says something about feeling insecure sometimes in situations with people he doesn't know very well. She's not feeling insecure, nor does she have an immediate recollection of feeling insecure with a new person, but she agrees anyway. Yeah yeah absolutely. It's like the Titanic. It takes too long to stop. The iceberg is not moving.

But it doesn't resonate. He's not stupid. He knows she was insincere on that last oh-my-god-i-totally-get-you. He's suspicious now. He's met chicks like this before. Oh yeah, it's all great at the start. Then they start lying and he doesn't know where he is.

So the tide has turned, but it's way too uncomfortable for anybody to actually acknowledge, even to themselves, until later, when they're alone and analysing the whole thing. But right now, they're still together. Sitting at that table. And now, instead of manic agreement, what happens is a big fat silence, each of them alone in their own little self-bubble. Nothing is said. Nobody says "I don't get that". Nobody says "It's all suddenly gone strange, hasn't it?" Whole worlds are left desolate in the space between one person's declaration and another's lack of receptiveness to it. Tumbleweed blowing through and two desperately grinning people peeking in at the scene but unable to make anything grow there at all.

Last night I walked along my street in Brooklyn just slightly ahead of a couple who began to argue. I have never heard a fight between two human beings conducted at such a light, pleasant conversational level before. Not an ounce of passion. God, I remember the aria-pitched furies that Johs and I performed for the Danish public, blazing fire through the freezing cold Danish streets. Not pretty.

But the volume between these two last night was kept low, and gentle. Discreet in their aggravation. Keeping things looking good on the street. Having a fight. Totally comfortable in it.

They're talking about money. Both have thin, white voices. His is the first voice I tuned to:

- I mean it as a legitimate question. Where do you think we're going to get the money? I'm not coming over all no-we-can't-do-this. I'm asking you for ideas.

- But it's always the money. The money the money the money the money. First thing. Straight away.

- Look, I'm not trying to shoot myself in the foot here...

- It's like when I say like, like fifty times in a sentence. I don't have to hear about it all the time from you.

- Well I don't see you taking that burden off o' my shoulders.

- I just wanna make our lives more fun. It's like it's... regimented.

- I like order. You have always known this. I don't like debt. Especially not for something so... frivolous.

Walk down Grafton street in Dublin at 4 in the morning and you'll hear plenty of conflict, people screaming things that never make sense. Or Camden Street, down some alleyway, some girl is sitting on her ankles, heaving sobs and breaths, he having shattered her world in pieces again, and stormed off in disgust at her. Rage and pain and hurt, at volume.

Not like this.

This was something that would probably continue at that level for hours, days, weeks, without climax.

They crossed the road and I was tuned out of their bubble.