I made the first contact with the little boy who lives on my floor today. We were in the elevator and he whistled a few notes, and I whistled a few to conclude our made-up song. He thought this was great. I’m pleased. I’ve always been curious about him, but he’s so odd I usually think it better to ignore him. I call his family “The Poors” because they don’t have running water and use the public toilets to wash. This is cruel and amuses me, but I think it’s okay as I too didn’t have running water for the first 7 months I lived here. Anyway, this little boy spends hours entertaining himself in the corridor – singing songs and playing odd games with himself that usually involve repeating some action at some specified pace. I once saw him on the street waving some imaginary specter towards him, and then dashing behind the building. There was one woman walking in front of me and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t get she wasn’t part of the event. I’m convinced if he grows up without being completely crushed by his peers he will turn out to be a creative genius. I can’t tell how old he is, I’d guess something between 6 and 10, I’m not very good with children’s ages. He has an older sister who’s beautiful and elegant and poised.
--------------------
--------------------
It was a rotten day, hard disc broken, weeks of work lost. I felt physically sick when they told me. Carton of whisky sure looked good. 3 weeks of sobriety still left. I did the only thing I could do: put on Billy Idol’s “Devil’s Playground” and drew.
