DREAM: Marching slowly down the dirt roads of a trailer park—someone’s with me, maybe Elliott. Not sure where we’re going but my character knows. It’s as if we’re in a video game. The trailer park inhabitants loitering all around us—they’re being hostile towards us and we try to avoid them. It rained earlier so the ground is covered in puddles—trying to avert the shady natives. For some reason they don’t like water and avoid coming near us when we splash in a puddle. We continue on for quite a while, turning corners, warding off enemies. A gang approaches. One of the guys looks like Morgan Freeman. I have an invisible gun that shoots invisible bullets.
I aim right at Morgan’s head and tell him to, “Back the fuck off!”
I keep repeating this to keep my ground and let him know I’m serious. Then I slap him with my gun across the face. Turns out his crew is on our side and now everything’s cool. I apologize for hitting him. We re-join and continue our march to wherever we’re supposed to be. Finally, we arrive in front of a house—it seems empty. I’m checking everyone to make sure we all have our headset microphones on and ready to go. One of the guys is wearing actual headphones.
I ask him, “Are you ready to jack in?”
But I sense something is wrong with the situation. The guy that planned on meeting us inside the house doesn’t seem to be there. I split us up—taking half of the group with me around back and the other half by the front door and…
Waking up around 1:30 p.m.
Breakfast: Plain Bagel with Butter and Blackberry Jam. Orange Juice. Zinc.
Cleaning my room—vacuuming.
Errands.
Watermelon.
Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Tomato and Mayonnaise. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Honey Green Tea. Strawberries.
Watching Tough Luck [2003].
“You keep your friends close and you keep your enemies closer. But the women, you keep the closest. They’re the most dangerous of all.”
Preparing Musicplayer scratch tracks to use in the studio next week.
Dinner: Spicy Chicken with Onions and Red Peppers. Brown Rice. Broccoli.
At the queen’s house—finishing Let Me In [2010]—this American remake of Let the Right One In [2008] isn’t so bad. The camera shots and cinematography is superbly done—storyline matches up.
Sharing strawberries and a bottle of white wine—it feels like a long time since I’ve seen her, but it’s only been a few days. Earlier, Anthony commented how different I looked, “like you have a new stride compared to yesterday.” I was feeling strange last night—bottled up with some heavy things. But here I am, in the presence of my baby, and I feel like a new man, or something like that.
After the movie we get the bright idea of doing something none of us have ever done before: Sex On the Beach. We cleverly choose 69th street. Settling down in a cozy nook on the edge of a sand dune, vegetation as our camouflage. Sharing a Djarum Bali Hai clove—breathing in the spicy smoke—no stars in the sky, just the clouds and the twinkling lights from the ships far out to sea. We can hear a rowdy bunch of people not too far away. I’m eager to love on her. There we are, naked on a blanket, the crunching of the sand beneath us as we compose our sexual rhythm. There’s a fierce response on her end and it naturally feeds onto me. Yeah, she’s really into it. So am I. I mean, this exotic locale matches perfectly with her exoticness. It’s such a beautiful moment watching her ride me—in love with me—speaking heavy breathy statements like, You’re amazing and I love you. I can hear amateur fireworks from the people close by—the sparkling light flashing across her engrossed face. After finishing, we both lie down on our backs. Her eyes look heavy. I see tears well up.
Me: “What’s wrong baby?”
Her: “Nothing.”
Me: “That’s not true. You’re crying.”
Her: “I—just love you so much.”
Now this moment was even more beautiful.
Me: “I love you too.”
Her: “Don’t leave me!”
Me: “I’m not leaving. I’m right here.”
We get up to leave and as she attempts to zip up her dress there’s a malfunction—she gets frustrated with it. I try helping but no luck. She’s getting impatient and irritated. Just let her be. It’s a tossup of acting playful and irritable towards each other on the walk back to the car.
She caravans to my house. As we walk in we can hear the noise and commotion coming from inside—nothing but liveliness. Before we make it to my room, the sight of a few people with shirts off is unsettling to Margot…
Her: “My boyfriend will not live in a whorehouse!”
This is only a bad seed of what’s to come: a debate in my room on how I don’t say anything about the indecency going on at my home. The truth is, I don’t have control. And she doesn’t like that. And she’s pissed.
Me: “You’re upset because I can’t control people!”
Trying to enjoy a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
And then she plays her classic game of I’m Going To Leave And You Better Come After Me Or Else. Or else I prove to her I don’t care. She leaves because she can’t handle the heat. All I wanted her to do was lie down in my bed so we could top off our beautiful Sex On the Beach night. After a few stressful moments and angry fits, which is a lot to skip, she settles down in my room—putting on her pjs.
I put my arms around her and whisper, “Don’t you ever say I don’t give a shit about you. I give tons of shit about you.”
On a side note, we found out the rowdy group of people shooting off fireworks at the beach was everybody here at the house. How weird is that?
Anthony encouraged me to read an email he sent me before I went to bed:
“a thorough explanation in the rise of nudity in our kingdom would entail me stretching my thoughts back to the midst of the road trip....
....that's too much....
instead.....
.....coming back from a road trip eventually catches up with you.
I am experiencing cabin fever
and from where i sit,
so is the rest of the country
America
take off your clothes
get out of the house
spill a little beer on yourself
or wine
depending
on your soul preference”
Sleep 4:30 a.m.
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