If you go very long without speaking to anyone, only observing people speaking to each other, you’re likely to begin experiencing a bizarre sensation of isolation. It’s bizarre for its contradiction: feeling alone and invisible despite all the people around you. It’s like something out of The Martian Chronicles.

The other day I was reassured of my own existence by a security officer who spoke to me, polite but stern, saying “Sir, you can’t hang out here; it’s a meeting place.” or “Sir, we’re closing now.”

I’m losing track of which things happened on what days, or what things happened on which days. Part of this is because I’ve developed something of a morning routine, so that it’s difficult to differentiate one morning from another.

It begins at 6:00 a.m., when I wake to the intercom voice of authority thrusting itself upon the quiet spaces of every room. The front desk attendant speaks into the mic like a diseased mother, offering the same spiel as always: a morning greeting laced with the rising intonation of mock sincerity, a statement of the current time, a call to rise from one’s bed, a reminder of the places off limits at 6:30 (restroom, smoking room, kitchen), a warning that everyone is to be out by 7:00, and, to end on a positive note, a decree that everyone have a good day.

Breakfast at this place is often lacking. Defense of statement: the only things to drink are chlorinated tap water, drip coffee made with said water, and cow’s milk. There are numerous loaves of bread, but the only substances available for spread are butter and peanut butter. Maybe if jam were known as jam butter they would have a jar of it available. I’m aware that being critical of the food is a tasteless act, considering my homeless status and that everything is provided for free. If it isn’t obvious, I’m not being exactly serious in my criticisms and would be, in fact, very grateful if the only service provided was a safe and warm place to spend the night. That cheap laundry, free showers, and dinners prepared by volunteers from a different community organization each evening are also offered makes this shelter quite the little homeless hotel.

Back to breakfast: given the aforementioned, I usually reject their offerings in favor of biking down a couple blocks to branch III, where I can indulge in a bowl of instant oatmeal and a thick slice of buttered and jammed toast.

Around 7:30 I bike towards downtown in the dedicated bike lane that follows Park Ave. for a good length. In a few minutes I find myself sitting on one of the rectangular, wooden crates spread about gold medal park. In the mind of the landscape artist who designed the area, they are the post-modern equivalent of benches. Here I stay, reading, writing, thinking about things of inconsequence, until 8:00 or 8:30, at which point I enter the Guthrie Theater to continue more of the same.

At the Guthrie, I’m either on the 5th or 9th floors. There are comfortable chairs on the 5th floor, also near power outlets for charging of phone or music player, and it is far enough from the 4-story escalator that the repeating, automated voice recording that blasts navigation instructions the length of the climbing stairs (despite it being too early for there to be anyone around to listen) is quiet enough to be blended with a background hum and ignored. The 9th floor is a small place, usually void of people and staff at the early hour of my presence, and glowing a calm yellow on account of the amber-infused glass windows (pictures provided in a previous post).

Near 10:00 I’m on the move again, this time to the library. There, I logon to a computer to check my mail, write posts like this one, or apply to be a sperm donor. I’ve been approved! They want me to come by for a test sample. They pay $150-300 per visit, and I can donate up to 3 times per week, provided my jism maintains sufficient sperm count.

After my internet fix it’s 11:00 or noon, and from here my days get more varied. Things I’ve done in the past few:

Capitalized on happy hour at 3:00 (half-priced appetizers) at the Lyon’s Pub downtown.
Biked to uptown and lounged on the grass at a field near Calhoun Blvd.
Had lunch at Whole Foods.
Stayed at the library to make more progress on the Burgess novel I’m reading, creating lists of the unfamiliar vocabulary I encounter and looking up/writing down definitions found in the 20 volume Oxford English Dictionary.

I had to smile when I saw that the author of the novel I’m reading is quoted on the inside flap of the Dictionary! Burgess states “I have taken this book like a mistress to bed (a weighty one but handleable) and pored over a great many pages, looking for omissions. nothing is omitted, however slangly or scabrous or high-tech.”