AD's Journal 2024

   Woke up yesterday to the shaking of our 1888 house. This was not an earthquake, but a backhoe in the street in front digging up the two tree pits on out sidewalk. We had asked the city two years ago to remove the existing trees because contractors from PSE&G had so completely butchered them that they threatened to fall into our house. Uncle Brian – what we call the mayor – sent crews on the coldest day of that year to cut them down. Since then, the pits had remained empty, until yesterday. The other properties up and down our quiet street had been planted prior to the removal of our trees. So, we discussed our options – whether to ask the city to replant or to simply concrete over the pits. Uncle Brian in the meantime must have come down the street and noticed, sending his crews yesterday to give us new trees to replace the old ones, a pleasant surprise, although waking to the rumbling made us wonder if the sky was falling. This is cleanup week for the city, as o

   Seeing the Rolling Stones cover band last Saturday made me nostalgic, and sent me back to the old recordings I did of Eric Lemon (and the other various names they band had during the 1970s and 1980s). This also prompted me to call Garrick, who was Paulie’s longest friend and was there was the beginning since I was on the west coast or in the army for some of those critical years. I saw the earliest version of the band in Paterson at St. John’s community room in 1968. Pete and John M, along with a drummer I didn’t know, made up a trio. Hank insisted I come and meet Paulie, who was to be invited up to sing, and he did, although the crowd was so thick I didn’t get to talk to him. At year later, while on leave from the Army, I went to the shore with Paulie and others, where they took over the stage of some beach bum band. I didn’t see him perform (except as a solo act at Charlie’s Halloween party in West Paterson in 1970) until I got back to the east coast in early 1972, by

   I’ve restored much of the original blog not really knowing what impact it has, and largely know little about what is currently transpiring in her life. Unlike in the past in which she posted poems and essays, making much of this clear, she posts very little that is publicly available except for her videos. For the most part, I ceased even following her blog back in 2015 and so have very little knowledge about what went on with her in the aftermath of her leaving her political post – though I know she got a new job in New York City around that time. Her move out of the apartment she lived in since 2010 came at a curious moment since it coincided with my moving to a new home a few blocks away, making me wonder if there was some connection. I assumed at the time (with nothing to substantiate this theory) that she had moved in with someone (possibly a romantic situation) into an apartment in upper Manhattan and commuted to work via subway. She gave up her car years earlier whi

   The old pop song Pops up in my head, “the lips I miss to kiss,” Like a bad penny It keeps coming back, Haunting me, The best part of a bad thing, The sour after something Utterly sweet, Makes me think of the bees, Whose passion Makes them make Way too much honey An excess I appreciate Even if I’ve not tasted Its flavor in years, Recalling how sweet, If not exactly the tang, Lingering on the tip Of my tongue, teasing me, And how soft the embrace The lips I miss, As the pop song goes, Missed but not forgotten, Even if I can’t quite remember It’s exact taste.   2024 journal menu   email to Al Sullivan

   Map of Woodstock from our 2008 trip Unfortunately, we have to put off our spring trip to Woodstock because my wife has to work. Most likely, we’ll take the trip north at some weekend after June 9. In the past, we have stayed at the same motel in Kingston near the exist from the thru way, as I did with my daughter during the summer of 2019. At lot depends on the condition of my car and my finances. The repair today cost $1,000, and there is a likelihood I will have to put more money into the beast shortly – the repairs since the star of the year have been horrendous, not just the usual tire or tune up issue. At one point, I had to replace the sensors, which only last about six or so years. Then, when the car started stalling, I had to replace other parts. Now this latest replacing brakes and aspects of the horn (my inspection sticker still says November 2022.) I don’t know why we keep going to Woodstock once or twice a year when one of the main attractions had been the farm

    Back to the shop with my car so I can get it inspected.   the horn doesn't work; the brakes squeal and the sticker for inspection is more than a year and a half out of date otherwise it's perfectly legal   perhaps I'm inspired by my birthday having survived for another year makes me wanna put things back in order and perhaps even catch up with all that I'm behind at work with I visited the graves of my great great grandfather, and my great grandfather and grandmother who among the host of other family members interred in Lodi, the town of which our clan sprang after their arrival here from Italy -- actually it was via a short stop in Little Italy in New York I also visited Peggy's grave. The stuffed bear that I left around Christmas with the New York Giants pin on it is long gone snow sleet hail and rain and such but the Angel pin from Easter flowers remained.   I did not get to her grave on Saint Valentine's Day eve as I wanted to which wa

   I kept expecting the band to break out in the song “ I hear it's your birthday”   though it was Rolling Stones band   and not The Beatles   and what I got   was a rendition of the traditional   happy birthday song sung for one of the fans in the crowd   who had just turned 30 a mere youngster   though the scene brought me   back in time to when   we all were at that age on the edge of becoming old when nobody trusted anyone over 30 and Mick said he did not wish   to be playing rock after that age who is now on tour at 84   all of this a bit too nostalgic   when those I played with   have not survived while I have amazingly 2024 journal menu email to Al Sullivan

  (posted from my phone) it was more than a little irony that the place we chose to go see rock and roll last night was within a few footsteps of one of the regular gigs the band I work for played back in the early 1980s we did not go there for my birthday although it was a kind of celebration and the band was a rolling Stones bar band too many members but more than qualified to play the music we were hearing I forgot just how exhausting the rock and roll life especially after having work earlier in the day when I had to cover an event for the newspaper nothing much really has changed except that the groupies that's hung around the band we're all old like us and overweight and yet it did not stop them from having a great time or for the band to appreciate their loyalty the bands that I played for had similar fans although they ceased playing many many years ago. So the social scene that became such a big part of our life back in the 1970s and early '80s no longe

  She dances like a robot With her mother on Thanksgiving A male voice off camera Saying he doesn’t want to be On YouTube, A different dance than the one She danced for her mother On Asbury Park beach A month earlier, Real joy exuding from her As if she has finally found contentment (even though I suspect She may be putting on A happy face) She, having breached The age of 40 (perhaps now 44 or 45), Though her face is the same face From all those years ago, Framed by black hair, When I remember it being brown Or near red under harsh sunlight, Waving her arms like a robot, While her mother tries But not successfully To imitate the dance, Both standing around What is likely her father’s Kitchen table Somewhere in lower New York State, Kicking off the holiday season With a video she feels compelled to record For posterity, Life is good. Life is long. Life sometimes gives you gives You never thought you’d need Or want, Yet are grateful to receive Anyway.   2024 journal menu email to Al Sull

  Things have calmed down in regards to the hits on my website. Instead of hundreds of hits a day, we’re back to a few dozen. This may be a result of my taking down many of the older posts and my attempt to relocate some of the journal entries onto another page, This may have been a mistake, which I am currently correcting by restoring the journal entries – but not the poetry journal entries. I’m rewriting the poetry journals into a poetry, and restoring them one or two per day, and since there are hundreds of these (plus many poetry journals I haven’t yet even bothered to post) this last aspect will take time. I still have journal entries to post, but will wait until I’m caught up with restoring the previous ones before I start adding additional entries. All of this is largely taking place in a vacuum. In the past, I had access to a lot of material – when she still posted poems and essays, along with the fact that her political enemies were never shy about talking about he

   The rain held off long enough for me to get back to the train last night, but even that only dotted the windows as we headed north. I was exhausted from the walk – to the historic train station, down the cobblestone road, then back again. The skyline, with its glass face, reflecting the last rays of the sinking sun, making the Big Apple look as if on fire. The view changed with the extinguishing of the sun, a different, internal glitter of building lights replacing the fire, haunting in the sense that is revealed residential occupation that did not exist when I grew up. While I used to marvel at the sky line when traveling from Paterson along the Weehawken overlook, much of downtown became dark as offices closed. I went to the park yesterday for an event at the historic train station, lots of kids, lots of noise, and I was grateful for the relative silence once free of the building – if you discount the constant buzz of helicopters, hired to haunt the green lady at the f

   The cat situation has not improved since we chose to let Tuck back outside. While we already took in as a house cat one of his former adversaries, there are always new males to replace old in this wild kingdom. When we moved into the former police chief’s house, we only had three outside cats, all left over from some litter we inherited but never met the parents: two black cats and one tiger cat. One of our neighbors adopted one of the black cats (which was pregnant when they adopted her and has since produced a litter of her own they kept as well). We do not know what happened to the second black cat. But the tiger cat remained a resident in our yard for a long time, even as other more furious males such as Tuck began to appear. Although we called the cat “tiger kiddy brother,” we eventually gave him another name, “Garfield” because of his tendency to jump onto our window screens and cling there, causing one screen to tear so completely that two of our inside cats made th

    It got warmer finally, yesterday and the day before. I still overdressed, though less so yesterday since I had to walk from 45 th Street to 30 th Street to catch the bus again to Journal Square. This morning, we’re seeing a change of weather as thunderstorms rip through our neck of the woods, driving our outside cats for cover and causing our inside cats to quiver at the perpetual rumbling. Scary or not, I love these, and would spend my time on the front porch if I didn’t have to get ready to work, our lives caught up in the practicalities when we really prefer dreams. I keep going back to places where I wandered when I was younger, not just those places that remind me of Pauly, but ones where life changed dramatically for me. I keep wanting to go back to WPC campus, though with the world as it is today, going there on a weekend is a bad idea, and perhaps there will be too much security on week days to make the venture. I last went there in the 1990s, snapping off a f

   The heavy rain came later yesterday, even though we had a steady drizzle all day, making laundry a little longer as the dryers struggle to make up for the moist air. I did not travel far from my car, except for the Sunday ritual coffee at the Dunkin in Secaucus, watching instead the parade of people making their way to and from the bar across the street, the eye-opener crowd that pretend they are looking for the meal that comes with the discounted drinks. This part of the world is largely unchanged – the name of the bar, the new Arab restaurant where the Chinese take-out had been, the Bollywood kids’ academy in place a jewelry store. Yet if I don’t look too closely, I might think I’m back in 1992 when I first started at a reporter here, or even 1990 when I worked as a baker briefly at the Dunkin, or even 1983, when I worked in the Fotomat in the Acme Supermarket (now a CVS) parking lot. Indeed, I have a long history with this place, having passed through here many times on t

     If you don’t cling to it You lose it, These small things That bring brief joy, This is the stuff of life, The so-called distractions We later realize Are what we most miss When they are gone. We live our lives Riding dusty trails Or dusty barns, Aching to break free Into clearer air Clinging to the reins Of what will never Turn out to be A runaway horse, And yet, Takes us on The ride of our lives, Down trails We never meant to take, To places not too far away, Yet far enough, The happy trails Less taken, Yet desperately needed At this moment in time, Allowing us to carry on When it another light We might lose it all. 2024 journal menu email to Al Sullivan

  I knew Tuck was back when I heard the growling in the yard this morning. This terrifying, which howl had been so common in the past when Tuck roamed the neighborhood, had vanished when we brought Tuck into the house during the summer, after he had suffered wounds so severe, we believed he would not survive. Although we got him to the vet briefly, they did not wish to deal with how vicious he was, giving him only the basic shots, and telling us to return with him later, when it was all we could do to capture him once. So, we let him heal in our house, a risky business since he tends to be unpredictable. You move unexpectedly or do something that alarms him, he bites and claws you – not gently either. This is not to say he didn’t appreciate us. I fed him. I petted him. But I was away nervous around him. The stronger he got, the more anxious he became, longing to be released back into the wild. Frankly, I think he missed the fighting, and often perched in the open window l

   In what may be an overly broad assumption, my revamping of my poetry page seems to have highlighted what seems to interest my poet friend, since she seems to be a regular visitor to my poetry and erotica with far few hits on the journal entries. Part of this may be due to the fact that I am rewriting and updating the poetry and posting what would be to her newer erotica stories, while I’m merely reposting the journals from the last three years. I have many more journal entries I’ve not yet posted going deep into 2015, but I’ve paused posting these later journals until I’ve caught up reposting those from the past. The poetry and erotica may be more interesting because I’m trying stuff she’s never seen or converting poetry notebooks into poems (in some cases leaving the original scanned poetry journal item while reshaping the posted text into real poetry, renewing my poetic energies. 2012 to 2015 was among the most prolific period of my life for writing with thousands of pag

   Nine days until my birthday, an odd count down, I think, from a time when I actually looked ahead to getting older, if not old. I’ve become a survivor, having outlived already all those I liked in the old house with except my mother and grandmother. When my mother passed away in late 2001, my uncle pulled me aside at the grave site to say, “We’re the last two.” Meaning we were the last of the family that had shared experiences in the house my grandfather bought after World War II. Ted’s remark haunted me, especially after I learned of his passing in 2010, and I saw myself as the last of the clan. This wasn’t completely accurate because Uncle Pete, Alice’s husband, remained alive until early 2012, at which point, I became the last of that generation, year by year outliving all my predecessors with the exception of my mother and grandmother in total age. This year, I reach the age at which my mother died, leaving my grandmother who died at 91, the last milestone and poss