Tuesday October 23 2012


☼ ○ ▬

Traveling on the far Siberian side of Russia with my mom. A vision of the map. Our current location is a small city near a prominent lake. We’re deciding how long it will take us to drive to another city. There it’s vastly white from the snowfall as opposed to here where it is a bearable temperature. I’m driving on the foreign roads and come across a sandy hill that leads to the lake. I pull over and my mom and I get out to enjoy the scenic view. It feels like we’re not supposed to be here because it’s connected with a logging facility. A strange truck pulls up and we jet it out of there. Later, I’m on bicycle riding with Aysena through Paris, France. As we ride down unfamiliar streets I brush up on what French I know. We pass a string of condo housing where police enforcement is handling a situation with a woman. We decide to turn around and head back to the house, which is strangely 1435 in Virginia Beach. Somehow we get split up and I arrive home without Aysena. It’s been a few hours and she hasn’t returned. I thought maybe she found somewhere else to sleep and that she was probably mad at me for losing her. I attempt to write her a message online.

▬ ○ ☼

Getting out of bed around 12:40 p.m.

Strawberry Toaster Pastries. Orange Juice.

Taking my car to the BP on 17th and Pacific for an oil change. It’s gonna be a little while so I go for a walk on the boardwalk. I take up residence on the bench opposite side of a homeless bag lady, or maybe more accurately put, a wagon lady. She’s wearing thick cozy sweatpants and footed with a pair of rugged running shoes. She’s got a plastic Little Tikes wagon over-packed with belongings. She sits there at the bench, sometimes walking over to the railing to observe the crashing waves, and mutters (talks) to herself; I can’t decipher the topic of conversation she’s having. Whenever somebody passes by she asks politely but intrusively, “Do you have an extra water?” Nobody seems to. If I had one I would offer her one but I don’t. She doesn’t think to ask me and even say a word to me. But I’m okay with that cause I just want to sit here undisturbed and read Franny and Zooey. Occasionally these tiny puffy brown birds will land on the armrests, unafraid of my presence. They bounce like kangaroos along the cement pecking at anything they discover edible. I feel the cool breeze envelope me and I’m sheltered by the shade of a tall hotel behind me.


I check my phone to see if I missed a call from the shop. Instead I find a missed call from Wheeler (I had tried to call her earlier to see if I could pass the time at her place since she lives so close by). She left a voicemail...

“Sorry. I was in class...I had a bizarre dream with you in it. I accused you of being a predator and you quite matter-of-factly agreed with me. Anyway, just returning your call.”

After a while I call her back and we meet up on the beach near 11th Street. We sit just above the shoreline discussing skydiving (which has become an interest of hers as of late) and lucid dreaming. My car’s done. We depart.

Grocery shopping at Harris Teeter.

Lunch: Pita Pockets with Hummus, Tomato, and Cheese. Potato Chip Trio. Honey Green Tea.

Aysena sends me this Henry Rollins quote...

I think it’s great for two people to be together. That is a good number. I think, that to keep it alive though, you can’t spend every day together. It wears out the magic, Love means nothing to me if it’s not fortified with fierce, painful longing, brief explosive instances of furious passion and intimacy and then a sad parting for a time. In that way, you can give your life to it and still have a life of your own. I think some couples spend too much time together. They flatten out the potential for experience by constant closeness. Passion builds over time like steam. Let it rage until it’s exhausted and then leave it alone to let it build up again. Why can’t love be insane and distorted? How can it be vital if it has the same threshold as normal day-to-day experience? Why can’t you write burning letters and let your nocturnal self smolder with desire for one who is not there? Why not let the days before you see her be excruciating and ferment in your mind so on the day you go to the airport to pick her up, you’re nearly sick with anticipation? And then when desire shows the first sign of contentment, throw it back it its cage and let it slowly build itself back into a state of starved fury. Then when you are together, it all matters. So that when you look into her eyes, you lose your balance, so that when she touches you, it feels like you have never been touched before. When she says your name, you think it was she who named you. When she has gone, you bury your face in the pillow to smell her hair and you lie awake at night remembering your face in her neck, her breathing and the amazing smell of her skin. Your eyes go wet because you want her so bad and miss her so much. Now that is worth the miles and the time. That matches the inferno of life. Otherwise you poison each other with your presence day after day as you drag each other through the inevitable mundane aspects of your lives. That is the slow death that I see slapped on faces everywhere I go. It’s part of the world’s sadness that’s more empty than cold, poorly lit rooms in cities of the American night.

Leslie surprises me with a phone call and stops by, to give a present to Anthony and to me as well: a new set of markers and rubber cement to help with my collages. We sit down at the table and create various artwork. I spend most of the time putting together a third collage, all the while conversing about various things.


It’s Anthony’s birthday today and it’s officially LIVE. Tim and Erica have moved out; Kelley and him take over their room.


Mentioning how much time has passed since Leslie showed up and all this social stimulation around the house began, “Yeah when I walk down those stairs time becomes null and void.”


Darren describes a science experiment he read about involving a woman living with a dolphin for 10 weeks in order to get the dolphin to talk to people. It turned strange when the dolphin began to make sexual advances and then LSD was involved.

Darren: “The next time that I take acid I’m going to try to think of what it must be like to be a dolphin and get a hand job from a scientist. Think about how glorious that is! You’re just the only dolphin in the WORLD that got a hand job from a SCIENTIST!”

Apparently none of this was fabricated, according to this article...


Spaghetti with Green Peppers, Onions, and Tomato Basil Sauce. Killian’s.


At some point a bunch of pumpkins are brought in. I retreat to my room. I’m exhausted. But before I retire I’m given a little goodbye note from Leslie written on the back of the Cinnamon Toast Crunch box she cut up along with two pages of markered notes from school she thought I’d find interesting.

Today was such an offset kind of day. Nothing went according to the plans I had in my mind. People can be very distracting from my personal agenda but I think in respects to today it was a positive thing.

Sleep at 4 a.m.

[i] About a Universe. Mixed Media Collage by me.

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