Friday August 10 2012


Waking up sporadically throughout the morning to the sounds of buses coming to a halt, garbage trucks collecting trash, and street chatter. That phrase about New York being the city that never sleeps gives new meaning after sleeping through that. Surviving another hot sweaty night’s sleep.


Wesley has a business brunch meeting with a publicist at Brooklyn Label, a little café in Greenpoint. Emily, Elliott, and I grab our own table by the window.

When describing what a Bloody Mary is to Elliott he reacts with disgust and says, “Alcohol doesn’t taste good. Drugs don’t taste good either. You know what tastes good? Food. I’m addicted to food, Robert.”

I order Coffee with Southern Fried French Toast. It comes prepared with a Cranberry-Pecan Butter that makes for an interesting flavor. Delicious. Caitlin lives nearby and joins us for a few minutes.

Then we’re off...Hampton Roads bound.

Elliott can’t hold his bladder long enough and we encourage him to use a lemon flavored Gatorade bottle, appropriate enough.


Napping for an hour or so.

At a service station, one of the many stations that mimic all the other ones on the New Jersey Turnpike. Elliott, as he did the last time, snags some free pickles from the condiments bar. This time he fills it up in a sundae dish.


Elliott tosses a few wet pickle chips across the van. It lands on Emily’s shoe.

Wes: “Don’t throw a fuckin pickle!”


Salt n Vinegar Chips with Avocado. Half a Peanut Butter Sandwich. Orange Juice.


Reading through an old issue of LIFE magazine from 1956. At least 70% of the pages are filled with flashy advertisements. The dynamic of their marketing tactics were a little bit different back then. There’s an aesthetic to them I find appealing.


Stop at a busy gas station on Eastern Shore. Elliott gets stuck in a long line and returns to the van in frustration, “I tried to take a shit and I couldn’t. Then I get in line and all these oxycotton zombies couldn’t figure out what the fuck they want.”

There’s a certain point one reaches when traveling in a van for long periods of time. You get antsy and you start tweaking. It happens to Elliott and I right about now. We’re almost to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel and everything becomes a laughing stock. Watching little bits of napkin getting swept up by the strong gusts of wind coming through the open windows. Rolling around the van seats – shaking our bodies – doing whatever we can to relieve our asses from sitting still.  

We finally arrive in Norfolk. I hop in my car and head home to Chanticleer. Settling in – taking a shower – doing the dishes.

A slice of Pizza with Steamed Mushrooms, Green Peppers, and Carrots.

I reach out to Aysena. She moved from the Oceanfront to a house on Shore Drive. I meet up with her and we take a walk on the beach. It’s not often I get to see this side of the water. Looking out across the ocean where the Bay-Bridge Tunnel lights up the view. It’s a romantic scene. Ays and I innocently exchange affection – kissing – caressing. I might be developing a crush here.

Ays: “You are like cat.”

I bite her shoulder playfully and she returns the favor.

I speak poetic words that adorn the mood. I use the word desire in a sentence and try to explain what it means.

Me: “It’s similar to wanting something but more intensely.”

The wind picks up blowing her long slick black hair in such a way it almost feels like a dream.

Me: “That wind is me. You can’t see me but you feel me. It desires you.”

She takes on a stiff pose and says, “I am a tree. I just standing.”


Whenever I admit to something that I feel or think, almost every time she responds with, “I believe.” Not I believe you or I believe it but just, “I believe.” She’s not jaded, maybe in another way, but not in an American way. 

Back home.

Sleep 3:30 a.m.

[i] Billboard image by Emily.
[ii] All other images by me.

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