DREAM: An intricate tree house with no walls, bedding, and 3 different levels. It’s understood this is my house. The Russians and other foreigners are sleeping over. Talking with Art trying to figure out where everyone will sleep. He suggests I take a spot on the floor, but I demand at least one spot on the bed since I live here. Directing the others to where they will sleep. The scene switches…☼ Hearing a male voice narrating—describing various characters and their stories. Each one has a unique outcome and legend to it. Watching a TV screen. I see a female character with a monk’s cloak on—she has no face because it’s hidden in the darkness. The voice speaks, “A—F— was hung…” In her monk cloak—on a horse—hands tied—noose tied around her neck. The horse is kicked—horse runs—noose chokes her to death. “…And she was dropped on the side of a cliff…” She lies lifeless on the side of a cliff. I can see her face in great detail now—close-up of her face. “…And she was left to rot for many years…” Still frozen image of her face—begins to rot in fast motion giving me the sense of time passing quickly. Now, I see a full body shot—her legs relaxed, crossed—her face now an animated interpretation of a skull—three concave indentations where the eyes and nose used to be. “…And the blood dripped from her wrist…” The story ended here—left with the understanding that her blood would drip somewhere, land on someone, and maybe cause something horrific to happen.
A few minutes after 3 p.m. I wake up.
Breakfast: Toasted English Muffin with Butter and Blackberry Jam. Peach. Hot Earl Grey Tea.
Fixing up my bike to ride to work.
At the ice cream shop.
Lunch: Egg Salad Sandwich on Rye Bread. Salt N Vinegar Chips. Mango Oolong Tea. Peach.
Reading The History of Love, getting really close to being done with the book.
Customers in and out. “Small strawberry cone please.” “Butter Pecan in a cup.” Uh…an orange Gatorade.” “I’ll have a can Pepsi.”
She walks in alone. Brunette. Not in the least bit skinny. Not at all fat. Somewhere in between. Pretty, but noticeably aged. Freckles cover her pale skin. 36? 38? Maybe 34 years old? She’s wearing a white top with a deep purple-blue skirt that’s modestly long. The color matched her necklace in such a striking way I felt compelled to compliment her, “The color of your necklace matches you well.” She thanks me and gives me an honest smile as she leaves with her Mint Chocolate Chip cone. What is it about something beautiful or something that aesthetically captures you in such a way that forces you to be reverent or, put simply, make you nervous? I live for this—the adventures of the senses. It gives me a thrill—looking for perfection or maybe I’m just looking for flaws to convince me nothing is perfect.
Sitting on the bench outside the shop. The light breeze comforts my mosquito-scarred ankles. The colors from the various neon signs from all the businesses nearby glowing in the dark. I imagine the purple-blue lady walking by to leave the pier. She’s with her boyfriend or husband, and maybe some kids. I approach her, “Hey wait!” She turns to me with that honest smile and I say, “I know compliments these days usually have selfish motives, but…I just wanted you to know you’re beautiful.” I’d walk back into the shop hoping what I said would boost her confidence or her happiness. In some small way she might start appreciating her husband more or maybe the husband, after realizing what I said was true, would realize what he really had and cherish her just a little bit more. But none of this actually happens. All I can do is compliment on the color of her necklace. But my imagination is just as important.
Eating the last slice of pizza from Doug in the tackle shop.
Leaving work on my bike—listening to my ipod. This is my favorite part.
Arriving home. Roma and Jamil are getting back from their jobs at the same time.
Emily, Margot, and Wesley are watching some movie or show in the living room.
Dinner: Pad Thai Noodles with Broccoli, Carrots, and Cabbage.
Sitting on the couch with Margot—looking at each other in the big mirror in front of us.
There’s confusion on the constructs of our relationship. I share with her things that seem to confuse her. I didn’t mean to. My feelings haven’t changed—there’s still a mutual care and commitment between us.
Telling her that my ambitions in music are really important to me and come first before anything. She’s touchy feely and I’m not when we’re around people. I don’t know why. I just value it more when we’re alone.
Recording at the storage unit.
Back home, taking a shower, then reading The History of Love.
Eating Nutella on Bread. Milk. Mango.
Back to the unit—finishing acoustic guitars for “Cryptic” and practicing a little.
Unreal.
Sleep around 7:15 a.m.
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