8:08 AM 8/24/2002

Saturday morning. I remind my self that writing every day is the only way to be a writer.
still these days... when people see youve got something in your hand they want to see some money that your going to give them, not a note pad. or a tape recorder. even cigaretts are preferable.
Yester day i saw two men, probably construction workers at the shcool site on twenty second avenue. One, older and skinnier than the other, perhaps more tired looking, drank from a brown bagged bottle, and the other man fatter and jollier held an animated conversation with a wirless phone. I noticed because the man was openly drinking on the premises of a gas station and also because they seemed so tired as they walked across the lot. the older man seemed to lead the way, finishing his beer with the larger one in tow like an ebulient circus ballon. they tossed the beer in a can on the corner and crossed the street slowly fading into the side streets as I drove on. they waited for the traffic light and behaved totally normally in all respects but they also seemed detatched as if they were not conected to the surroundings, moving through on their own mission. sometimes people seem like part of the back ground, or they take center stage but these two were more than that.