Wednesday May 4 2011

DREAM: Attending a gathering at the 1623 house. I approach an old friend, Emma Sherbak. We’re catching up on the past few years. The behavior of her body interacting with mine is borderline awkward, not so much for me but enough to give an outsider the wrong impression. Of course, Margot is watching all of this friendly interaction and I sense she’s displeased. I walk over to her as she crosses her arms and presents her notorious I’m upset with you pouty face. I whisper into her ear, “It doesn’t matter….I love you.” It doesn’t have the calming effect I would like it to…

Waking up around 2 p.m.

The last time I’ll have the pleasure of waking up in this house.

Stanley Steemer is here to clean the carpet and perform the miracle of removing the raunchy dirt stains everywhere.

Breakfast: Organic Strawberry Pop Tarts. Orange Juice.

At the new home in Chanticleer. The street number is 1435 and has now been dubbed “143live” as a moniker, pronounced [lahyv]. It was quite an amazing feat to transport every last particle from 1623 to here in only two days. It could not have been done without the help of the rest of the gang.

Well, here I am sorting through boxes and arranging my new room, which is two times bigger. I find myself designing the layout of a lot of things in a similar fashion as they were at the old house.

Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Tomato and Mayonnaise. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Vitamin Water.

Work at China Wok.

A customer pays me with fifty-cent pieces (half-dollars).

Back at home, unpacking boxes—moving furniture. Finally setting up internet. I just want to get back in the flow of things and be settled in and make music and not be so stressed out. The past few days have been non-stop, literally.

Dinner: Vegetable Past Soup. Naan Bread with Garlic. Carrot.

Anthony is acting like a spastic 4 year old as usual, running up and down the stairs with a scooter making his rounds to every corner of the house. All the while Margot and I are having an upsetting talk over the fact that I have an ex-girlfriend box, which contains a few love letters and memorabilia from my first girlfriend. I try to explain there is absolutely no emotional attachment to it and that I only keep it for posterity’s sake. She just doesn’t understand. “But I’m a historian! You know me. I like to collect things and document my life.” I guess she’s more offended by the fact I won’t throw it away. I whisper into her ear similar things I whispered to her in my dream. I just find it entertaining and interesting to look back and see where I’ve come from. It’s simply an artifact that represented a stage in my life. She just doesn’t get it. Eventually, the convo turns around for the better and the sweetness begins.

Newspaper route.

Cinnamon Streusel Muffin. Milk.

Coast to Coast AM.

Sleep 7:20 a.m.

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