Thursday July 14 2011

My alarm goes off at 11:11 a.m.

Sipping on Orange Juice for breakfast.

Hot Yoga session at Zen Hot Yoga—different teacher. She’s doesn’t waste time—a much more invigorating experience—more sweat—more positions—more focus.

Lunch: Egg Salad Sandwich with Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Honey Green Tea.

Tracking drums at Earth Sound.

Arriving right on time: 3pm.

Mark: “I’ve never met a musician that’s punctual.”

Me: “That’s key to productivity.”

Compiling the best takes from last night’s recording.

Yucca Chips and Apple Fritter Bread.

Starting out with the beast of all our songs, “Fairfarren”.

After playing through the whole track for the first time, which is about 9 minutes long…

Me: “We’re gonna have a good time with this one.”

It’s a strenuous session…

Ping-pong break.

Dinner: Leftover Mongolian Style Beef Paste with Mixed Vegetables.

Chris keeps on truckin’.

Coffee.

Moving on to “Minks”…

Strangely, it’s 11:11 p.m. when we finish.

Having completed drum tracks for 6 songs is an accomplishing feeling—only one step closer to a record.

On the drive back—talking with my mom on the phone. It’s nice to confide in her sometimes even though I don’t as often as I’d like. Expressing to her my frustrations as of late with the difficulties Margot and I are having. We’re so alike in how we understand matters of the heart and relational issues.

Home.

I find a Rachel sleeping in the hallway right in front of my door like a cat or dog would do waiting for their owner to return.

Snacking on Pecans and Popcorn and a PBR.

Gillian’s here—she’s pleading for my time. Apparently, I’m not the only one with the need for consolation. We go for a walk in the cool night—the moon is bright, a harsh beautiful shine over everything, revealing things normally hidden in shadows, even revealing the things she normally hides in the shadows. There’s an openness and comfortability she feels, and she doesn’t understand it. I’m kind of intimidated by it, and I should be.

“Sorry. I’m so stoic.” And I have a lot of reasons to be acting so. It’s not even the volume of thoughts on my mind, but it’s the perversity and sharpness of them that keeps me in a state of flux.

Smoking a Bali Hai…

“You are the ultimate antagonist in my story.” She needs someone to please and pleasure her. And I’m not the man for the job. I have no right. I’m still in love with someone else. My allegiance is with the queen. Distractions might help but they really don’t in the long run. I’m not stupid.

Sleep 4 a.m.

Wednesday July 13 2011

DREAM: Hanging outside an apartment complex with some friends at night. A dude is roaming nearby swinging a shotgun around shooting off rounds at random. We feel a sense of danger but not enough to stop Phil Gray and I from confronting him. Up close his shotgun resembles an abnormally large beer bottle—spewing out a powerful fizz high into the starry sky making a circular pattern. I grab hold of the bottle and attempt my own circles…

Waking up around 11:15 a.m.

Breakfast: Orange Juice. Peach.

Doing a warm yoga session at Zen Hot Yoga studios. Towards the end—during the final pose—lying down on our backs. Our teacher guides us into a state of meditative relaxation—“…If a thought comes to your mind, just keep the door open and let them through…”

Afterwards, Gillian and I grab a bite to eat at the Farmer’s Market Grille.

Lunch: Tuna Salad Sandwich with Lettuce and Tomato. French Fries with Honey Mustard.

Expressing the relationship troubles that I’ve been having as of late.

Back home—getting my stuff together—enjoying a glass of cold honey green tea—attempting to nap for a little bit but I just don’t have enough time.

At Earth Sound Studios in Chesapeake—tracking drums.

Me: “It’s still disgusting outside, Mark.”

While listening back through all the takes for the song, “Sexy Pain”, it’s inevitable to identify Drum Onomatopoeia—it sounds like this: Thim Thum Thum Thum Vvvhummm

Coffee and a Pomegranate Strawberry Granola Bar.

Three recorded takes of everything is sufficient (The Holy Trinity of Takes), but a fourth one is even better (add the devil into the equation).

Tracking our second song, “Bury”. There’s one phrase on the bridge that we’re having a hard time getting a promising take of.

After the 10^th or 11^th try, Mark comments, “If that was an Amtrak train everybody would be dead.”

Break time—a round of ping-pong and dinner: leftover Mongolian Style Beef Pasta with Mixed Vegetables.

Working on the third song, “Dark X” “Sassy Bat”, whatever it’s called. It’s been a long day for Chris but he’s a drum warrior—slapping it down with ease.

On the drive back home—talking with Margot on the phone—it’s an upsetting conversation because I suggest we take some space for a week, but really just until Tuesday. I mean, I’m working all weekend—I’m going to be busy anyway. She’s offended that I would want to not see her for this long. It just feels like what we need to do, at least. We take a step back in hopes that the distance will help us gain new perspective. And then, we can decide to take a step forward again or continue taking steps back. She doesn’t know how to see the bigger picture. All she can feel is the pangs of the one she loves and wants to be with asking her for a break. She feels awful and I hate this.

“But we have to do this! We just have to! Please let this work.”

She says she’s just going to be miserable and hate me even more. Gosh, this sucks. I love you so much. You’re the most important person in my life, next to my mother. We shall consider this a test…

Eating a bowl of Frosted Shredded Wheat Cereal.

I’m ready for bed a little early tonight.

Sleep 3 a.m.

Tuesday July 12 2011

DREAM: In a mall-like atmosphere—a crowd of people around me. Something bad is happening outside the building, something apocalyptic, and all of us are huddled up in here to stay safe. I’m sitting in a restaurant booth next to one of Margot’s friends, whom I don’t recognize. Margot is across from us but gets out of her seat. I’m flirting with the girl next to me encouraging us to engage in sexual acts. Margot shows her disdain. In my mind, this is only a dream—no consequences—no worries—do whatever you want.

I try to comfort her in a genuine way, “Baby, it’s okay! It’s just a dream.”

But Margot is not having it. She throws a fit, pulling out the expensive flashlight she bought at Target in waking like—the handle flashes purple. She aims it wildly shooting off rounds at random. I try to restrain her because she’s becoming a danger to the group.

“Margot! Stop!”

I grab the flashlight gun and press the button to switch off the power. She’s able to get one last round out before I do. And a flying object that’s understood to be a bomb shoots out past all of us, then bounces back in the middle of the room. After coming to a complete stop it makes a mechanical noise then attaches itself to the floor. A light smoke excretes through the top.

“It’s a smoke bomb! Everybody hold your breath and get outside! Now!”

All of us move quickly out of the building. I pinch the shirt of the girl that was sitting next to me earlier and pull her alongside me. We make it out safely. There’s a lot of commotion. In the distance I can see flashing lights and sparks. It’s almost over. Guys in bio-suits are walking around preparing a special hideout room for the survivors.

Waking up just before 1 p.m.

Breakfast: Apple Fritter Bread with Butter. Orange Juice.

Recording at Earth Sound Studios with Mark—tracking drums with Chris.

Me: “Yeah it’s hot outside.”

Mark: “It’s disgusting.”

Lunch: Egg Salad Sandwich with Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. XXX Vitamin Water.

Chris just got off work. He walks into the studio and says, “I’m stuck in traffic. I’ll be here in ten minutes.”

Me: “Ha. Ha.”

Mark went looking for some in-ear monitors. He walks into the room and says, “Mmm. It’s nice and cool. And it smells like eggs.”

Before we can even start recording we have to make sure we’re getting the drum sounds we want. The snare isn’t sounding up to par—not enough “attack”. It sounds like “a block of wood with a chain attached to it.”

After playing through 3 different snare drums and tuning and changing heads and adjusting, we get it right and reward ourselves with one completed song.

Banana and Strawberry Yogurt.

Back home.

I called Margot because I got out of the studio a little earlier than expected. But she went out with the girls and got a little drunk—she’s stuck at her house without her car. Unfortunately, her temper fails our conversation and she hangs up on me.

Dinner: Mongolian Style Beef Noodles with Mixed Vegetables and Garlic Bread.

In the kitchen, Rachel and James sit down in chairs while I cook dinner.

“…watching Robert’s Cooking Show.”

Enjoying a cold Dunkelweizen beer—listening to Gillian express her current turmoil in the group. Margot busts into my room, I mean, the door is already wide open. During the time I was relaxing and eating dinner she was calling me non-stop for the past hour. She’s livid, I mean, livid! I mean, lightening bolts are shooting out of her eyes. The interaction between the two girls is somewhat cordial…

“Um…who are you?”

“Oh I’m Darren’s sister.”

“Well I need to talk with my boyfriend so…”

As soon as we’re alone, it’s a hailstorm of negative remarks and accusations. I didn’t answer her calls because I just wanted to enjoy my dinner and chill out. I didn’t want to be stressed out. I was gonna call her back. I really was. I wanted to see her. But not like this…[[]][[]][[]][]]][[]][[]][]] It gets real heavy—her slamming the stool into the floor—her throwing my phone against the wall—her collecting all the clothes she’s bought for me (“I’m taking these back!”)—her picking up the corkscrew off the dresser, flipping out the knife blade and threatening to poke my eye out. I’ve never seen her this raging mad. I encourage us to go outside because nothing is changing and if she doesn’t leave then I’m leaving. Man, this reminds me of a time long ago back at 1623 when I ran away from her, literally: http://www.iloverobertsblog.com/2010/11/wednesday-november-17-2010.html

She slaps me across the face when I open the front door for her. Everybody hanging out inside senses the animosity. Outside, she’s threatening to go to other boy’s houses and talking about breaking up. Eventually, she’s sitting in the driver’s seat of the Saturn she borrowed from her grandparents and things are cooling down a little bit. We can’t help but notice the lightening show up in a cloud underneath the moon.

“It’s representative, Margot. If we were gods and goddesses that would be us up there having a heavenly fight.”

She’s finally in my bed half-naked and fully beautiful—being sweet and shaking her arms and legs for me to embrace her.

Making green tea is therapeutic.

Sleep 4 a.m.

Monday July 11 2011

DREAM: Driving around a city at night looking for an address to deliver Chinese food, “2552”. Don’t know the street name. I pull in through the entrance of a neighborhood that seems more like a faux-neighborhood—all the buildings and storefronts clustered together. Walking up to the door. It’s Margot and her friends, Tory and Monica. Earlier in the dream I remember Margot telling me about her plans to go out with friends. I guess they got a hotel room. I’m kind of surprised to be delivering to them. It’s understood that Monica is sick but still wants to eat greasy Chinese food. Margot’s got a big smile on her face.

Waking up just after 11:30 a.m.

Breakfast: Apple Fritter Bread with Butter. Orange Juice. Zinc.

All day shift at China Wok.

Peaches.

SLOOOOOWWW…

Lunch: Grilled Cheese with Tomato. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Honey Green Tea.

Man, it’s really SLOOOOWW.

My feet are irritating me—taking off my socks and shoes while I drive. Ahh. It feels so good to let the feet breathe. I decide to deliver barefoot for a while.

Belgium Milk Chocolate Bar.

I’m a barefoot deliveryman!

Bad day for business…

Finally off.

Dinner: Vegetable Lo Mein. (I told Ling to add extra snow peas. I want to taste the fruits of my labor.)

Enjoying a cold Dunkelweizen beer—in Darren’s room, listening to him vent about his corrupt workplace.

Art shows up—earlier he asked if I’d help him move some mattresses and a desk to his new apartment because I have a station wagon and of course, mattresses. Driving down Oceana, that long stretch of road bordering the jet base. Sharing Bali Hai cigarettes—the clove smoke escaping through the open windows.

Me: “This road gets so lonely at night.”

Art expresses to me the new weight of responsibilities on his back having to move into a place on his own, along with Roma and Jamil, and a few girls. Just as I was the leader and facilitator of 1623 and currently of 1435, he has to be the father of his own abode.

At the apartment off Harper’s road. Just outside a lady is standing there with a six week old puppy crawling in the grass—I immediately come over to pet the tiny fur ball. “Oh my gosh! He’s so tiny.”

Back home. Eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Sleep 3 a.m.

Sunday July 10 2011

DREAM: I’m a little black kid and they call me “The Flyboy”. Maybe it’s because I can fly? I’m not sure. Just outside the side of the church (Freedom Fellowship). I’ve kidnapped somebody—trying to be discreet about it but it feels like everybody knows already. With a rag in hand I wipe the inside of this metallic canister filled with purple vitamin waters. It’s after 2 o’clock and church just let out. There’s some kind of potluck lunch happening in the building in the back. I walk around to find tables and tables displaying a plethora of cakes and desserts. I’m particularly interested in the yellow cake with white frosting. One of my friends asks, “Do we have to pay for this?” Without responding I just grab a plate and fill it with cake. Sitting down with friends eating. A bulky black man is moving around beside us as if he’s looking for someone—He’s a secret agent or an officer. He’s looking for me of course. I stay focused on stuffing my face with this delicious cake. He confronts the table and starts asking questions—pulling out this photo that only slightly resembles my face and says, “This is Flyboy’s brother.”

Waking up around 11:30 a.m.

Breakfast: Egg and Cheese Burrito from Sonic. Orange Juice. Zinc.

All day shift at China Wok.

Snapping the snow peas—eating Watermelon.

SLOOOOOOWWW AFTERNOOON.

Quick stop at the house—Lauren, our nanny is cleaning up the oats spread out all over the place caused from a battle between Skippy and Kevin the night before.

Rachel’s sound asleep on the black leather couch—The Fifth Element playing on the TV tower.

Rachel: “Told them thay in trouble when u make the house into oatmeal!”

Short poem by Rachel:

“1435 oatless

slept on the couch

woke up to robert eatin a sandwhich over my head with and the 5th element on.

multi pass.”

Lunch: Peanut Butter Sandwich. Kettle Cooked Potato Chips with Avocado. Honey Green Tea.

Margot rides around with me on a few deliveries again…

She “knife-feeds” me slivers of avocado and chips while I drive.

We stop into the Verizon store next door and she reveals her plan to get me a smart phone for my birthday. I’m not even sure I want one. I’ve grown accustomed to my simple call/text phone and it’s qwerty keyboard. I really would like to regulate my attachment to technology by not owning any sort of multi-task phone such as an iphone or a droid. But it has obvious convenience.

The orders come and they go via my car.

Strawberry Yogurt and Belgium Milk Chocolate.

Feeling the crunch towards the end of my shift—getting impatient because the stoplight’s performance is significantly slower after hours, the revolutions are longer. My irritation is at a high. I wish I could just calm down. It will all be over soon enough. I take a quick right at the intersection of Birdneck and Laskin, only yielding to the red light rather than stopping as to beat the cars across from me. And of course, a cop pulls me over and I receive a ticket for disregarding a red light on a right turn. I should’ve learned by now that impatience gets you nowhere, if anything, it can push you two steps backwards. It’s probably gonna cost me about a hundred dollars. There’s about a day’s earnings out the window. I suck.

Dinner: Cod Fillets with Tartar Sauce. Brown Rice and Broccoli.

“In the Catcher in the Rye sense I like being sexy…”

“If you want to be realized, look at the moon.”

Going over to my baby’s place with one goal in mind: Get some lovin. I mean, we both complained earlier today about the fact that we didn’t have sex the past two nights we slept with each other. As soon as I arrive, I slip my shirt off, turn off the lights and TV, and embrace her beauty. And it was good.

Back home. I need milk. And I found a used Oberweis milk bottle that’s been sitting in our hallway for a week. And so begins the eager quest for milk. I grab Anthony and we drive to Kmart only to realize I left the used bottle at the house. Anthony knows a shortcut back home so we walk and talk and piss in the soccer field behind Arbor Trace where Raven lives. Gillian’s home and she joins us on our trek back to Kmart. She’s dancing around like a ballerina, high on something, maybe life, maybe the night. Taking the back alley. I get angsty and kick a moist cardboard box.

Anthony: “Be careful!”

Me: “With what?”

Anthony: “With everything!”

Finally, I grab a fresh glass bottle Oberweis but the lady at the register says the old one has to be clean in order for us to return it. And it’s definitely not clean—chunks of chocolate milk curd sticking to the sides. Anthony rushes it into the bathroom and we clean it the best we can. The lady eventually gives in and accepts it, but only this once.

Riding home…

Me: “That was a big adventure all for just milk.”

Anthony: “Yeah, I was gonna say that.”

Me: “That’s how it should be.”

Enjoying a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Best milk ever.

Albert Einstein once said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” But what happens when imagination is not imagined at all, or maybe I mean that imagination becomes reality. Is that okay to indulge in? Is that okay? Is the imagination sacred? But isn’t reality sacred? Can I not just enjoy a pleasurable moment without worrying about these things?

Sleep sometime after 4:30 a.m.

Saturday July 9 2011

Oversleeping—about 25 minutes late for work. It’s because of how comfy her bed is but I told my boss it was because I ran out of oil in my car. The latter is a better excuse.

All day shift at China Wok.

Stopping by the house real quick to fill up my car’s water tank. James is there on the couch watching TV and offers me a breakfast biscuit from McDonald’s. I didn’t have the chance to eat anything so this is perfect timing.

“You’re a life savior, James!”

Breakfast: Egg Biscuit. XXX Vitamin Water. Strawberries.

It’s a slow slow slow afternoon—snapping the snow peas for the restaurant—playing slow contemplative jams on my laptop.

My mind is cluttered with sad and angry thoughts—the road rage doesn’t help.

Watermelon—Peaches—Blueberry Yogurt.

As I’m driving out of my neighborhood I see the road is clear for me to go and pull up just past the stop sign. To my right, a guy on a bicycle slams on his breaks in shock. I gesture an apology and allow him to go.

But he insists I go, “Go ahead,” then he says sarcastically, “You’re more important than me.”

Wow. What a thing to say. But he’s right. Drivers do feel more important than any other form of transportation on the road. Obviously, being the majority has a lot to do with that.

I pick up a few more orders at the restaurant and happen to see that same bicycle guy turning a corner. I creep up in my car and apologize formally, “Hey man. Sorry about earlier.”

He’s sweating and replies, “It’s fine. No problem.”

IDEA: I think Craigslist’s Missed Connections personals should be expanded upon. How cool would it be if after a day’s driving you could apologize for cutting someone off on a personal ad, or even the opposite, complain about that blue dodge charger that almost ran you off the road? How many times did you wish you could speak your mind to all those inconsiderate drivers or express your gratitude? Well this could be your chance by using Driver’s Missed Connections. Think about it.

Lunch: Peanut Bagel Sandwich. Salt n Vinegar Chips. Honey Green Tea.

Margot surprises me with a visit—she tags along with me on a few orders…

She’s the epitome of a backseat driver—pointing out potential cautions—“That’s a stop sign, Robert!”—“Oh my god!” and making me feel like I don’t know how to drive.

Her: “Every time I ride in your car I feel like I’m gonna get in an accident.”

Me: “And have we ever gotten into one before?”

Her: “…”

Me: “Exactly! Relax. I drive for a living.”

Delivering an order off Piney Branch.

The customer opens the door…

Me: “Hi. How are you?”

Customer: “Better than some. Worse than most.”

Deliveries here. Deliveries there. Deliveries everywhere.

Dinner: Vegetable Lo Mein.

Finally off.

Enjoying a Dunkelweizen Wheat Beer.

Chores around the house.

James walks in on Margot and I talking about her search for a new place to live.

Margot’s in an excited mood…

Her: “I have a Venus Fly Trap. My vagina teeth love your penis meat!”

……………………

“So I was looking at engagement rings the other day—just to look—”

James: “Dangerous territory, my friend. Dangerous territory.”

The cavalry arrives, and by that I mean Anthony and the rest of the gang. A bottle of beer is thrown against the wall and no one accepts responsibility for it, leaving a guest to willingly help clean it up the stains on the wall and carpet. If only our nanny was here.

Sleep 3:30 a.m.

Friday July 8 2011

DREAM: It’s a movie starring Anthony Hopkins, myself, Owen Wilson, and a few other renowned actors. All of us are gathered on the patio outside of a mansion. Something is wrong with Hopkins—he’s possessed—his eyes turn white and hollow—his skin wrinkling—veins protruding through—his body disappears and he becomes a floating head with a partial neck attached. Turns out he’s actually a sorcerer of some kind and his goal ever since he was born is to infiltrate our group and commit some diabolical destruction. This is towards the end of the movie and for some reason I’m holding in my hand a thick blue novel version of the story. I flip to the last page of the book and read the last few paragraphs. Ahh. The ending is already written. It says here that my character is supposed to start a chant that goes like this: Lu La La. I try to say it discreetly at first so Hopkins doesn’t suspect anything. Lu La La. It only slightly affects him. All of a sudden I’m time traveling into the past when all of us were younger, even Hopkins. Another scene—all of us gathered together. Anthony, my roommate, is here now. But I don’t see Anthony Hopkins anywhere but I know he’s here among us. Next to Anthony—I whisper to him, “Trust me, okay? Just trust me. Follow me.” I start the chant, Lu La La. Lu La La. He joins me along with a few others, Lu La La. Lu La La. It progressively gets louder. An African American kid seems to be effected by it in an uncontrollable way. He starts losing his composure and begins to convulse. We keep chanting, LU LA LA! LU LA LA! Eventually, the black kid collapses to the floor. He’s dead. I realize now that he was Anthony Hopkins, in disguise. My mission is accomplished and the story from the book is fulfilled. But something’s wrong because people are chasing after me. I escape out the back door and into the courtyard. A woman clad in a cape looking like some sort of villain or superhero reaches out her hands but I hop up—flapping my arms, gaining altitude…

Waking up naturally at 11 a.m. just before my alarm goes off. I had a really heavy sleep.

Breakfast: Egg and Cheese Burrito from Sonic. Orange Juice.

All day shift at China Wok.

A father and daughter are sitting down in the restaurant eating their respective Chinese dishes. The little girl spills orange soda everywhere. Dad is calm. She’s calm but she has such a disgruntled look on her face. Cecily comes over to wipe up the sticky mess.

Lunch: Peanut Butter Bagel Sandwich. Yucca Chips. Honey Green Tea. Strawberry Yogurt.

It rains briefly. It’s been raining here almost everyday!

The hot hot heat is drowning me while I drive around in this hectic and congested town. I’m a sensationalist and need a sensation, something that will excite me—an ecstatic escape—touch me—let me release, please!

“I don’t play hard to get. I play hard to keep.”

Getting a cold Caramel Moo-Latte from Dairy Queen, which was a mistake—way too sweet for my taste. Disappointed.

The workday is steady—good money—a few shit tips but a few extraordinary ones to counteract.

A few songs stick out to me while I’m driving around…especially this Chris Garneau song called Island Song…

“And oh, the wretch is gone

And oh, the sorries begin

And oh, the drinking has thinned

Oh, still I wrestle

I wrestle within

And then to you

I don't look so good

Like I did what I felt like

Like I did what I would

But I don't have my dog

And I don't make a sound

I live on an island

In the middle of town

And then to you

I don't look so good

Like I got what I asked for

I got what I deserved

But I don't have my dog

And I don't make a sound

I live on an island

In the middle of town”

and Bowl of Oranges by Bright Eyes…

“So that is how I learned the lesson that everyone is alone.

And your eyes must do some raining if you are ever going to grow.

But when crying don't help and you can't compose yourself.

It is best to compose a poem, an honest verse of longing or simple song of hope.

That is why I'm singing...

Baby don't worry cause now I got your back. And every time you feel like crying,

I'm gonna try and make you laugh. And if I can't, if it just hurts too bad,

then we will wait for it to pass and I will keep you company

through those days so long and black.

And we'll keep working on the problem we know we'll never solve

Of Love's uneven remainders, our lives are fractions of a whole.

But if the world could remain within a frame like a painting on a wall.

Then I think we would see the beauty.

Then we would stand staring in awe at our still lives posed like a bowl of oranges,

like a story told by the fault lines and the soil.”

Finally home…

Dinner: Sweet & Spicy Black Beans with Brown Rice and Broccoli. Budweiser.

Turning on the electric organ that’s hardly ever played—belching out that Island song and singing to my heart’s content.

Eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Going over to Margot’s place. It’s a little later than I expected to be seeing her because she was out with some old friends she hadn’t seen in a while. I complained at first because we had planned on meeting earlier and I thought that was important to her. I made the wrong move though, because now she’s in an irritable mood for saying what I said. It’s partially my fault. I could’ve just restrained from saying anything when I walked in and saw her giddy I’m Happy to See You face. But no. I had to put my two cents in and ruin the mood. Whatever. We’re both tired. We end up just lying next to each other in her soft bed and falling asleep.

3:30 a.m.

Thursday July 7 2011

Waking up just after 11:15 a.m.

Breakfast: Orange Juice. Peaches.

Hot Yoga at Zen Hot Yoga Studios. This time it’s much more bearable and feels more natural—the sweat trickling off my legs and arms and face—following our yoga master—she has such perfect form and structure.

Afterwards, grabbing a bite to eat with Gillian at the Farmer’s Market Country Grill—she has such strong opinions and is very forward when it comes to relationships. This seems to be our hot topic whenever we make conversation.

Eating an Egg Salad Sandwich with French Fries dipped in Honey Mustard, which has recently been reintroduced in my life.

Meeting with a tax professional—getting some advice on how to file taxes as an independent contractor.

Napping.

Chris and I borrow Long Division’s practice space in Norfolk for the night—rehearsing the songs we’ll be recording next week in the studio. It’s in a storefront next to a hole in the wall barbershop where a black man sits making conversation in his mind.

Afterwards I decide to visit Emily and Doug and Jon at their new apartment off Stockley Gardens. The smell of baked goodness coming from the kitchen—Emily’s making something special. Ambrotious is being his cute mischievous cat self—his collar bell jingling wherever he goes. Doug hasn’t lost his love for vintage t-shirts—showing me some of his latest finds.

Back home—the house is crowded with people like it’s never been before. It was supposed to be Bad Movie Night but for some reason we never get around to actually watching the 1981 film called Knightriders with Ed Harris and Medieval knights on motorcycles.

Drinking a few beers while the commotion progresses around me—The Complimentary Kitchen, where as soon as somebody walks into the kitchen they receive a compliment—music on the laptop—the girls dancing in my room in freedom and spirit to a Hype Machine playlist while Tristan and I watch—taking the video camera and filming all the liveliness—there’s a soul train shoulder massage in the living room—there’s just too much going on to fully describe even the gist of everything.

Some thoughts from Rachel: In a muse-muse relationship no one gets hurt. In a muse-artist relationship one person would be infatuated with the other and could easily get hurt. And it’s up to the artist if it will work. And artist-artist relationships will never work.

“Some days it might be up to her but it’s up to you everyday.”

Sleep 4 a.m.

Wednesday July 6 2011

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 69^th 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.

Tuesday July 5 2011

Waking up sometime around 11:30 a.m.

Breakfast: Orange Juice. Zinc.

Driving down Dam Neck Road, a road I haven’t driven on since the olden days.

Trying out Hot Yoga for the first time at the Zen Hot Yoga studio—excited to get back into a regular practice of it. They’ve got the room set to 106 degrees. I can feel the sweat seeping out of each and every pore as we do a series of downward facing dog and lotus poses—the session lasts about an hour.

Experiencing an exhilarating feeling afterwards, a fresh feeling—exhausted and tired but at the same time feeling a new zest for the day.

Farmer’s Market is close by—with Gillian browsing the storefronts—eating a Tuna Sandwich with French Fries and a Vitamin Water. Getting some fresh green figs, peaches, and strawberries.

At Books-A-Million sitting down in the café area sipping on ice water and talking with Gillian—she has a lot of personal introspection on relationship philosophy—getting into debates and such.

Back home. Finding out through a photo on Darren’s phone that there were four naked girls in my bed without my knowing. Apparently the kids went to the beach, came back, took a shower together, then decided it’d be a good idea to pretend to be in a promo for Girls Gone Wild. There really are no rules here. But now my bed is sandy…

Snacking on Chips with Avocado.

I feel heavy. Something strange is going on—I feel locked down with no strength or power to do what I WANT. WHAT I NEED TO DO WHAT I NEED TO MAKE WHAT I NEED. I’m surrounded by so much noise here in this town, this crazy crowded tourist town we call a suburb—I’m an old soul with a lot of memories and mistakes and loves. Here I am lying down in my bed—trying to nap—trying to just relax the best I can to the sounds of Bon Iver or Sun Airway—in between two other souls like me with strange things going on, strange like me in the sense that they, too, are surrounded by their own noises and distractions—products of our environment—products of our pain. Misery loves company but misery also loves contrast. Spread your love. Give your love. I have a lot of affection to give------------but I can’t be everyone’s father, brother, lover, or friend. My mom raised me in compassion and possibly spoiled me a little, and in doing so I’ve learned to be compassionate and spoil people. I’m a beautiful byproduct of my mother. She knew how to love.

I need to feel productive. I need to feel accomplished. I’m in my mid-20’s crisis still discovering—still wanting new things but becoming senile and building up to a no-tolerance level for any kind of fallacies.

Getting a Papa John’s Pizza

The watching eyes are right in what they see in me. I’m weak. I don’t have what it takes to just put my foot down and do it, whatever that may be that I need to put my foot down for. Conflicted. Discouraged. And I thought everyone else had internal problems. I thought everyone else was the psycho. Everybody else is supposed to be the tripped out unstable high maintenance machines. But no. I am. I am just like her. I am just like everyone else.

Rachel sees right through the heavy vibe I’m putting off as I make my way upstairs: “Too much hot yoga?”

Me: “I just neeeeeeeds some peeeeeaaace…”

Enjoying some Figs and Strawberries.

http://hypem.com/#!/item/11k7q/Sun+Airway+-+Put+the+Days+Away

Let the music soothe my bones—it sings through me like a therapeutic knife.

I’m scared.

I know.

I’ve felt scared before.

Ecstasy—I need to feel this. But I don’t. but everyone deserves to. There’s something natural in the experience and something of the utmost sacredness.

I think I’m blogged out. I miss the mystery. What’s more important? My life? Or people knowing my life?

Eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Sleep sometime before or after 4 a.m.

Tuesday July 5 2011

Waking up sometime around 11:30 a.m.

Breakfast: Orange Juice. Zinc.

Driving down Dam Neck Road, a road I haven’t driven on since the olden days.

Experiencing an exhilarating feeling afterwards, a fresh feeling—exhausted and tired but at the same time feeling a new zest for the day.

Farmer’s Market is close by—with Gillian browsing the storefronts—eating a Tuna Sandwich with French Fries and a Vitamin Water. Getting some fresh green figs, peaches, and strawberries.

At Books-A-Million sitting down in the café area sipping on ice water and talking with Gillian—she has a lot of personal introspection on relationship philosophy—getting into debates and such.

Snacking on Chips with Avocado.

Getting a Papa John’s Pizza

Rachel sees right through the heavy vibe I’m putting off as I make my way upstairs: “Too much hot yoga?”

Me: “I just neeeeeeeds some peeeeeaaace…”

Enjoying some Figs and Strawberries.

http://hypem.com/#!/item/11k7q/Sun+Airway+-+Put+the+Days+Away

Let the music soothe my bones—it sings through me like a therapeutic knife.

I’m scared.

I know.

I’ve felt scared before.

Ecstasy—two souls—twice the touch—twice the beauty—twice the endorphins. There’s something natural in the experience and something of the utmost sacredness.

I think I’m blogged out. I miss the mystery. What’s more important? My life? Or people knowing my life?

Eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Sleep sometime before or after 4 a.m.

Monday July 4 2011

DREAM: Walking with Anthony through a chaotic beach scene—kids and parents running around with coolers and plastic sand pales and chairs. It’s as if we’re being filmed too and all the people are actors or extras for the movie. It feels like one of those long 15-minute camera takes with no cuts. Everything feels real but it’s all for the movie. I see a tsunami in the distance and we brace ourselves. The water crashes down drowning almost everything—all of us swimming and trying to stay afloat. I’m not scared though. Nobody is. Because we know it’s a controlled variable. Eventually Anthony and I find a way out. Now we’re walking in the city. It’s nighttime.

Me: “I always wondered what a tsunami would look like in the city.” But nothing here seems to be effected by the tall waves we just experienced earlier. It’s understood the city is just too gargantuan and has some sort of protection. I start explaining to Anthony how much that beach scene reminded me of a movie I saw recently. We get into a debate on which movie has the best long continuous shot. He runs off because he’s really excited to explore the city. I follow.

Waking up just before I have to be at work.

Breakfast: Two White Peaches and a Plum. Vitamin Water.

All day shift at China Wok.

It’s a slow afternoon for Chinese food.

Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Tomato and Mayonnaise. Kettle Cooked Potato Chips with Avocado. Honey Green Tea.

Taking a break at the house for lunch—watching Kevin play a video game called Prototype where the only goal is to wreak havoc in the big city.

Delivering an order on Hill Meadow Drive. Two black dudes hanging outside next door to where my customer is. The one with big dreads gets my attention, “Hey! I know it’s a stupid question but how come I don’t see white people or black people delivering Chinese food? You’re the only the one!”

Vanilla Yogurt and Watermelon.

The sky just cracked open—the rain is pouring down in bucketfuls.

The orders keep coming and I keep going.

As I’m walking out the door to get in my car I catch one of the most beautiful displays of lightening I’ve ever seen. Perfect timing. The electric veins covered almost the entire sky—but only for a second. The fireworks at the beach were canceled, but who needs manmade fireworks when we have Nature’s fireworks.

Delivering an order out near Shipps Corner. I park the car and leave it running like I usually do. Passing two dudes hanging out by the stairs sipping on alcohol. The customer’s on the third floor. I look out over the balcony. The guys are scoping out my car and laughing. I come back downstairs and they confess to me with smiles, “Sorry dude, we were just gonna hop in and drive it around the block. We thought it’d be funny.” He gives me some dap with his hand.

Me: “I probably would’ve took that seriously cause it’s been a long day. See you guys later.”

Dinner: Vegetable Lo Mein.

Finally off.

The Russians are having an Independence Day party at their house. Piling a bunch of people in my car—grabbing the sound system—and preparing ourselves for the liveliest night of the summer.

Sharing a round of Flaming Sambuca drinks—Roma acts as bartender.

Gabe Niles and his friend are throwing down on the turntables—spinning dance beats and inspiring movement in the crowd.

Margot’s being her sweet adorable jealous self. Just keep kissing her and giving her attention. Love her. Encourage her to come with you into a closet and make out. And that’s exactly what we do, but no sex, just sexy things. She’s great. I love her.

Back home…eating a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

Random appearance from a naked Josh—he runs down the stairs and plops down on the black leather couch scarring a Belgium couch surfer whose staying the night.

“WHAT IS THAT?”

Sleep 4:30 a.m.

Sunday July 3 2011

DREAM: I’m working as a waiter for a high class Asian restaurant. An old friend of mine, Gordon, is sitting at a round table with a bunch of his family. I’m waiting near the kitchen for his food. The cooks prepare a yellow sponge cake on a white plate and then pour orange tea over it for flavor. It’s understood that this is an Asian delicacy desert. I bring over the cake to his table and place it in front of him. He’s too busy laughing and having a good time to notice it’s me. I expected him to recognize an old friend.

As soon as I walk into work, Cecily’s on her cell phone yapping and yelling like a Chihuahua. She directs it towards Ling in the back kitchen. These are the most passionate and desperate tones I’ve ever heard uttered out of her mouth, and his. I really wish I could translate the topic of argument. But it’s mostly her giving the speeches. She’s terribly upset, so much that her voice has gotten hoarse—a disturbing thing to listen to.

Breakfast: Plain Bagel with Biscoff (Margot) Spread. Orange Juice. Zinc. Peach.

All day shift at China Wok.

My first order is in Chanticleer so I drop back into my house to see if my baby’s still sleeping in my bed. There she is, all comfy and cozy. Sometimes when I look at her in bed I envision wings attached to her back and instead of the bed sheets, a pillowy cloud hovering underneath her body. And maybe an image of a 36 pack of toilet paper rolls in the background.

Me: “Kit-ty!”

Embracing her warm body. She’s making those sweet noises I love to hear.

Me: “Guess what I had this morning? You. On a bagel.”

Driving down the long trek of numbered streets delivering to someone on 72^nd. Margot sends me a slew of upsetting texts. She just finished reading yesterday’s blog entry. My “thoughts are really hurtful and disturbing” to her and the fact “that every fucking person you [I] know knows about it the same time” she’s finding out is even more disturbing. I knew doing what I’m doing would create problems like this—putting the mystery out there for all to see. It’s tough for her to take on that role. It’s almost like The Truman Show except we know we’re being watched.

On the phone with her…………“I love you, baby! I want to be with you!” I say this almost teary eyed and with fervor.

Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Tomato and Mayonnaise. Kettle Cooked Potato Chips with Avocado. Honey Green Tea.

At the house real quick for a lunch break. Chilling in Darren’s room—Devon’s here too—she’s visiting for the weekend.

Darren: “You just need to find the………the exit.”

I get the call from Ling and it’s back to the grind…

Driving all over creation to fill Virginia Beach’s stomach with Chinese food—there’s no stopping…except for an Oreo Blizzard.

Back home. Anthony informs me a psychic is coming over to tell Kevin’s sexual fortune. Apparently, this is real. I don’t believe him and it never happens.

I grab James and we join Raven, Amanda, and a guy named John at the Friends School playground—enjoying a late night rope swing.

Darren bought a six-pack of Redhook Wit Ale for him and I, which has a hint of ginger in it. Trying out a bottle.

Everyone’s getting live in the living room—playing truth or dare. Within 10 minutes 90% of the males have their shirts off. I don’t think this house has had this much excitement since we’ve moved in.

Someone dares me to re-enact this funny picture we have up on the wall…

And I’m not sure what the actual dare is this time but Kevin is smothered in Sonic stickers.

Dinner: Red Beans and Rice with a Carrot.

Gosh I’m incredibly thirsty and I don’t know why. And I can’t stop drinking water.

Watching this: http://youtu.be/JjF932SFoCc

Rachel’s behind me engaged in a text conversation.

Me: “You’re a drifter, Rachel.”

Her: “What do you mean?”

Me: “I mean, you’re a drifter.”

After a nice hot shower and cold glass of Milk, it’s time to go to bed a little early.

Sleep sometime after 3 a.m.

Saturday July 2 2011

DREAM: Exploring the halls of the church I used to go to, Freedom Fellowship. I step into one of the small classrooms. A guy is standing there with guilt on his face but he’s trying to cover it up by acting badass. He looks like a character from a recent movie I saw called Cop Land. I approach him with determination, reach my right arm around my back, and poke him in his side, “You feel this? That’s my finger sticking into your chest. Next time it’ll be a real gun.” He opens the door to leave and offers me some dap with his hand as if we’re cool. I accept it as a sign to be cordial despite the hostility between us.

Waking up 11:13 a.m.

Breakfast: Plain Bagel with Cream Cheese. Orange Juice.

All day shift at China Wok.

I stop at Stoney’s Produce for some sweet plums and a tomato—the girl working there recognizes me from somewhere. I assure her it’s because I frequent this place. She lives in Massachusetts but only works here in the summer.

On the phone with customers placing orders—sometimes they can be so exasperating.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately on the philosophy of romantic relationships, more importantly the philosophy on the ones I’ve had over the years, and especially since these subjects have been the repeating topics in Margot and I’s conversations. Every single relationship boiled down to this: how happy are we making one another? We all want to be happy and satisfied. We’re ferocious consumers for pleasure and ecstasy and feeling. Anything that counter acts the happy experience is unwanted and causes doubt in the connection—constant bickering and arguing—constant disappointment—feelings of inadequacy—incompatibility—etcetera etcetera etcetera. The question is, are these viable reasons to assume it’s time to separate? Do you really expect to have a perfect relationship without conflict? Is not love a choice? Is it enough? I’m a warrior when it comes to love:::::::::or am I just trying to hard to protect myself from the inevitable?

Margot and I are both too stubborn and comfortable. It was easy for her before when she had a distraction and someone else to want. I don’t want to want someone else! But in our hearts do we feel it’s right…right to leave each other? Right to give each other space? Right to really see what it’s like without the other? I’m scared.

"Love is great. Relationships suck."

"You'll never know if you've found the perfect person for you, but you will know when the person you're with is not the right one."

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wendy-strgar/love-love-that-works-a-ph_b_593553.html

Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Tomato and Mayonnaise.

It feels like the hottest day of the summer—keeping my driving arm above my head to protect it from sunburn.

After getting lunch, Darren’s sister Gillian is there at the house. I invite her for a few deliveries. Chatting it up about a lot of the things I’ve already been thinking about. She’s really insightful and smart about these kinds of things.

Gillian: “Sexy people have sexy dreams.”

Salt n Vinegar Chips and Watermelon.

One of the guys that works at Verizon next door walks in to pick up his food. He starts inquiring about authentic Chinese food to Cecily. “Look I want to know, is this Chinese food? What is Chinese food?” Referring to American Chinese food that’s served here, “It’s what we as Americans look at as Chinese food. But it’s not authentic.”

Cecily says no one would eat the food if they served real Chinese food.

He starts asking about Ling and the other chef, “Is that your brother?”

Her: “Yes.”

He looks at me for confirmation, “Is she telling me the truth? Does she understand what I’m saying?”

Smiling the whole time I answer, “Yeah. She understands. That’s her husband.”

Him: “Oh!”

Her: “In China, husband is a brother.”

Dinner rush—making good money.

Back home after an 11 and a half hour workday.

Dinner: Papa John’s Pizza and a Carrot.

Talking with my mom on the phone—she has a computer question—trying to explain how to save an attachment from an email.

Mom: “So how are you?”

Me: “I’m good. I’m busy. I live in Virginia Beach. There’s a lot of people and a lot of noise.”

Mom: “Are you happy?”

Me: “I’m not happy with my environment but I’m a happy person.”

The queen is here to satisfy me—and boy does she satisfy. Nothing but the blue light stream coiled over my bed and a candlelight. I like it when she’s in control. She does too.

During the transfer of fire and ecstasy, I whisper You’re incredible…You feel so good…

Settling down with popcorn and Let Me In [2010] playing on the computer.

She shouts, “I LOVE POPCORN!”

Me: “You also love yelling.”

Her: “I LOVE YELLING!”

Sleep 4 a.m.

Friday July 1 2011

DREAM: The left side of the TV tower in the living room topples just enough to be unstable. I get Carmen’s help. She holds one TV as I pull off the other. We almost fall down but she stands her ground and we don’t lose our balance. I attempt to re-stack the TV’s but one of them is made like a squishy sandbag with a brown nylon material. This makes it difficult to stack anything on top of it. I don’t remember this TV being like that before. I continue molding and shaping in hopes it will work anyway.

Waking up after 11:06 a.m.

Breakfast: Peach. Vitamin Water.

Full day shift at China Wok.

A fairly pretty girl with dirty blonde hair walks into the restaurant. She seems high on something because she’s overly attentive and nice. After taking her order I show Cecily the ticket and she yells out to the cook in Chinese.

The girl reacts: “Sexy!”

I guess she was just really impressed with the sound of Chinese sound.

Margot: “Listening to my bday cd and it’s making me miss you.”

Me: “that’s why i made it.”

Margot: “That’s cheating.”

Me: “don’t worry these songs make me miss you too.”

Lunch: Egg Sandwich with Tomato and Mayonnaise. Kettle Cooked Potato Chips with Avocado. Honey Green Tea.

Deliveries are steady—driving all around town.

Watermelon and White Chocolate Lemon Berry Granola Bites.

While driving I pull out my digital recorder that contains hundreds and hundreds of musical ideas. Plugging it in and listening to tid bits of songs that I haven’t had the chance to work on. Overwhelmed with the beautiful melodies I’ve forgotten about over time. I feel a surge of regret and a feeling like I’ve been wasting so much time.

Shouting out loud in my car, “God!!! What am I doing with my life?!”

Dinner: Vegetable Lo Mein.

Back home—everyone’s packed in Darren and Anthony’s room like sardines.

I scram into my room hollering, “LEAVE ME ALONE! LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Angel made these incredible vegan Chocolate Cakes.

Night swimming on 86^th street with Amanda, Raven, Lindsey, and few guys I just met. I really need this—this clove—the cool sand between my toes—the twinkling stars overhead—the pure ocean enveloping me. Discovering these flashing yellow lights in the water that seem to act as underwater lightening bugs. Maybe they’re jellyfish. Catching them is impossible. The water is cold at first but I adapt—my teeth are chattering.

Scoping out a billboard we plan on culture jamming real soon. Running through schematics with Amanda while Raven stands on the side of the road wearing a bathrobe and on the phone. Being right next to the trailer park it’s especially comical looking.

Back home—intense relationship talk with Margot. It’s just too many issues to recap and we’ll leave it at but it always ends on an uphill note……“I love you….and….you’re the best.”

Sleep 5 a.m.

Pages

“In the Catcher in the Rye sense I like being sexy…”

Me: “I just neeeeeeeds some peeeeeaaace…”

Me: “I just neeeeeeeds some peeeeeaaace…”