Friday August 5 2011

DREAM: I’m using the restroom sitting on the toilet attempting to take a dump but for some reason I can’t. It’s not constipation. I just don’t have to go. Suddenly, Tristan Stewart is hanging out in here with me to which at first I’m uncomfortable with. But I convince myself and to him that it’s fine. I warn him, “It’s going to get stinky in here though.”

Waking up just before 11 a.m. She’s up before me again…I notice my cell phone is missing where I left it on the floor…I know what’s happening but it’s okay. She can go through it if she wants. I have nothing to hide. She just needs to reassure herself that she can trust me. I’m used to it by now. I don’t say anything when she softly walks back into the room…even though I’m tempted to call her out. Instead, I turn over allowing her the opportunity to put it back where she got it. She slips back into bed—all warm and cozy. Moving on…

Breakfast: Peaches. Orange Juice. Zinc.

All day shift at China Wok—back to the grind—back to the routine—back to Chinaland.

Snacking on the leftover Guacamole and Chips from last night. Drinking Lemonade.

It’s a slow afternoon at work…Cecily lets me try this Chinese fruit called Longan, brown on the outside, white flesh on the inside—a non-tarty grape flavor.

We receive a prank call at the restaurant—it’s obvious someone’s using a soundboard—I feel stupid at first for falling for it but I have to assume it’s a real customer at first every time before jumping to conclusions.

Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Ketchup and Tomato. Grapefruit Izze.

Ling: “Robert you selling your car?”

He saw the window markings and thought it said for sale but I inform him it’s the doings of my girlfriend.

Blueberry Streusel Bread.

A guy hollers at me from his truck, “Happy Birthday Hunnie Bunz!!” This is written on the back window…

Just discovered the existence of a man who died recently, Reverend Robert Shields. He kept an accurate detailed diary for 25 years—writing for at least four hours a day documenting his daily activities on typewriters. Obviously I never thought I was the only one who had a desire to document his life. But this man was serious. And it inspires me. Before he died, “in 1999, he handed over his diary to Washington State University in 91 boxes on condition that it would not be read or subjected to a word count for at least 50 years.” Here’s one sample that’s online:

Here’s an article on him:

Shields: "You might say I'm a nut. We are driven by compulsions we don't know."

People are giving generous tips today. This is fortunate because it makes up for the incredibly slow dinner rush and overall sluggish day.

Feeling content and happy about life—pumping myself up in my head about things, things I want to accomplish—feeling motivated—it’s a beautiful night—breeze flowing through the car windows creating a fresh moment…

Treating myself to an ice cream cone from Chic-fil-A.

Back home. Workday is done. My mother’s birthday cards arrived. She always sends two, a lighter/funny one and a heavy/serious one. Reading through the poetic Hallmark words that were written by somebody else but are always relevant. She underlines almost every phrase creating a tender rhythm and increasing their significance, and then leaving her own personal note, heart balloons and “Love you bunches” included. My mother is attuned to me—our bond is a strong one, the way it should be between a son and a mom. I owe her everything, for being who I am today…

The house is empty, which is not normal. Darren shows up. We both warm up some food and eat at the card table together…he’s very insistent. It’s mostly him dispensing his usual frustrations with the idiocy of society and the flaws in the system. He has one of the most intelligent minds I’ve known and his thinking is straightforward with no apologies or sympathy.

“Yes, we’re all slaves, Darren. But the trick is to be a smart slave.”

Somehow I convince him that having sex with someone’s personality can be just as fulfilling as actual sex.

Dinner: Leftover Ric-A-Roni with Edamame and Mixed Vegetables. Draft Cider.

I invite Darren with me to Kmart to get mayonnaise and cereal. He’s still high on a rage from some minor gossip issue over a stripper from Mermaids that he’s been in contact with. He discovers a pair of sunglasses in the passenger seat that belong to him…when I tell him that Anthony was using them yesterday, he erupts like a volcano—his voice pierces my ears a little. It just sets him off. I feel for him…

At Kmart—checking out at the register—the guy clerk exclaims, “I’m ruining people’s lives tonight.”

“How so?”

He describes a petty situation with another employee.

As I walk away I say to him, “Try not to destroy people’s lives.”

Back home—eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch…

I’m nervous…like a boy…but conflicted…like a man. There’s something beautiful and inspirational happening in the shadows of my heart…and my mind—it’s important to the story but the timing is even more important…

I’m reluctant and tired…

Sleep 5 a.m.

No comments: