Wednesday November 16 2011


DREAM: I’m on the corner of Dam Neck Road and Bold Ruler, the intersection to my old neighborhood in Ocean Lakes. I’m with Stephanie but in a room of some kind. There’s a bench we’re sitting on. The physical boundaries between us are gone. We exchange affection and romance is in the air. Everything feels so real. I kiss her arm and it tickles her. She kisses my neck almost creating a hickey. We embrace. We’re impressed with the new feelings between each other.

[Text message]

Mom: “How r u 2day?”

Me: “sorry ive been sick. achy and runny nose. a little better now. still lying in bed...”

Mom: “Ah i sorry can i do anything 4 u?”

Me: “ive got everything I need except you. come make me cream of wheat.”

Immune Defense.

My mom walks into my room with Holiday Grapes. She makes me Cream of Wheat.

Video footage uploading...

Grilled Cheese with Tomato. Potato Chip Trio. Honey Green Tea. Clove of Garlic.

Vaginasaurs practice at Stephanie’s place—working out a cute new tune that rips off that Violent Femme’s song Blister in the Sun.

Picking up a book off the shelf in the den called Norwegian Folk Tales...

Working China Wok for an hour.

Chicken Noodle Soup. Carrot with Ranch. Banana.

Poker night at the house—my mom and Jimmy stop by to observe the mayhem.

Making Brownies to share.

We all take notice that the presence of my mother inspires a calmer atmosphere—most watch their tongue and are careful not to let their rambunctious demeanors get too out of hand. If only she could be here every week.

As usual a debate breaks out between Nicole and Darren along with James Duke on the validity of holistic healing. This disrupts the game and perturbs Art who wishes for focus between all players, as do I. Of course this happens after my mom leaves. In the end it’s between Kevin and myself and I take the pot.

Reading from the Norwegian Folk Tales book aloud to Stephanie and Josiah who are comfortably cooped up in my bed while I recline at the computer...

Me: “I can’t wait to have my own kids to read to.”

Earlier Margot said she missed me through text. I didn’t respond. Now she sends me this: “We’re not meant to be together no matter how much we love eachother.” I’m not used to hearing her point out such stark realizations.

I respond, “i prefer the previous text you sent me.”

Peanut Butter Bagel.

Sleep 5:30 a.m.

[i] Asbjørnsen, Peter Christen, 1812—1885. Nowegian folk tales.

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