Sunday June 26 2011

DREAM: Sleeping on a bed with Gillian. I wake up to use the restroom but I’m in a mall and the trek is inconveniently long. It’s understood in my mind she got up to leave because she was upset about something or maybe uncomfortable. I look down the corridor and there she is—she sees me and turns to walk away. I’m too far at this point and there’s too many people getting in the way for me to catch up. Attempting to follow her I step through a doorway and all of a sudden I’m in Japan. It’s like a gateway or a teleporter. There’s no way I’m going to find her here. I write a letter or note to send, like a telegram. We’ll see what good that does…

Did you feel that fire?

You need a healthy distraction, not sex.

The human connection with all its complexities and ecstasies are practically irresistible.

Learn about the power of being alone. It will save you from many hardships.

You’ve got a good thinking cap on your head about these kinds of things.

Pure touch.

Curiosity in a new feeling.

In the morning.

Bad timing...

Getting ready for work just after my alarm goes off for the second time. 11:46 a.m.

Breakfast: Hot Brown Rice Green Tea. Egg and Cheese Burrito from Sonic.

In between deliveries I have to snap off the ends of the snow peas for Ling—a tedious task but it becomes kind of hypnotizing and it’s easy to get into a flow.

Lunch: Peanut Butter Sandwich. Honest Ade Orange Mango Mangosteen Juice.


The day goes on and on. The tips are good. Better than yesterday. The poor people order on Saturday and the rich people order on Sunday. This is the pattern I’ve noticed.

I pull up to the restaurant to find Raven and Amanda taking photos in the back of her truck. They were bored. They ride with me for the last three deliveries.

Delivering an order on Scott Lane—a cute old couple—they’re regulars. This will take some time. Because here’s how it goes: I knock. I watch the old man in slow motion—he inches his way to the door. He asks me to set the food down in the kitchen. He takes his time pulling out a chair. Then he sits down. Then he has to turn the lamp on. Then put his glasses on. Now we’re ready to make a transaction. I hand him the ticket. He analyzes it, confused on where the total is. “It’s $21.61.” He pulls the wallet out of his left pocket and counts the bills. I can hear his wife’s oxygen machine buzzing—the clock ticking. Then he pulls the change out of his right pocket and counts the coins. Glancing over some family photos on the wall. He’s ready to make his payment. I collect the money on the table and thank him and tell them to enjoy their meal. One day that will be me.

Back home—walking around in the night. Pacing back and forth by the dumpster in our cul-de-sac—staying in the shadows of the trees. Talking on the phone—talking to myself—analyzing my relationship with the queen—the ups and downs—the ugliness and the beauty. Oh how hard we both worked to be with each other. Why did I fight so hard to get her back when she rejected me? Was it love? Was it dependency? Was it ego? I’d like to think it was love and that’s certainly what I believed it to be in those moments. And I know it was. But are we functional together? Do we match? Am I the only one that knows how to take care of her? God, I hate asking these questions. It’s depressing. She’s all I’ve known for so long. She’s my lovah baby.

An interesting thing happens after I send Margot this text: “i love you so much.”

She replies: “I love you too baby”

But immediately after receiving hers my mom sends me her own text: “Missin u love u”

My mother and I share a bond that allows us to feel things and sense things at the same time no matter how far the distance.

Dinner: Campbell’s Chunky Canned Soup. Naan Bread.

Listening to music—something I haven’t done in a while.


Sleep 3:30 a.m.

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