Saturday June 25 2011

Waking up just after 11:11 a.m.



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



Delivering an order way out near on the corner of General Booth and Oceana, next to the Commissary. I pull up to the house. The guy is standing there engrossed in a phone conversation. No words are exchanged as I hand him the bag of food and he signs the bottom of the credit receipt nonchalantly. No tip. He didn't even bother recognizing my presence nor did he feel the need to... "Thanks for nothing dude!" I yell out the windows as I drive away. But he didn’t hear me.



Delivering another 5-mile order—another non-tipper. It's just another SHIT TIP DAY here at China Wok.



The combination of not being rewarded for work and dealing with the relentless traffic annoyances puts me in a defeated state of mind. I start dwelling on my feelings of insecurity from last night—thinking about Margot—the future—is this going to work—I love her so much—there's nobody else she will meet in her life that will appreciate her beauty as much as I do—I fucking adore her—every part—her perfect small hands, her slick arching hourglass back, those luscious Indian lips…Mmmm.

I said once, "I think I need more pain." But I don't need any more pain. I am not prepared for another Dark Age. I don't deserve it. Nobody does. Or do they? Do I? Does she? Oh Lord, I’m talking as if something’s happened and nothing has happened. I guess I’m just reminding myself that I’m still vulnerable.

I can't stand feeling like a victim. Nobody does. We all would rather be the perpetrator, the one in control. We all work so hard to be in control. But there’s something alluring about surrender. Not being in control and putting all your faith in a power greater than yourself, a power you can trust. I remember learning that once, well actually many times, growing up in church. That’s what I need more of. Surrender.



Lunch: Cape Cod Kettle Cooked Potato Chips with Avocado. Vanilla Yogurt. Vitamin Water.


A mother and her child are waiting for their food. The little boy fiddles through his mom’s wallet and takes out some dollar bills. “MAKE MONEY!” he blurts out. “No. Mommy’s money. That’s not how you make money.”



Delivering an order on Great Neck Circle. As I’m leaving the lady kindly tells me, “Thank you for dinner!”
“Oh no problem!”
“…and breakfast actually!”



The evening is steady business for me.

I’m able to get off early in order to make the show tonight.



I pick up Anthony from the house—he helps me load up the gear and onwards to Norfolk.

A lot of friends and familiar faces here at The Taphouse. I play a small set of acoustic songs—some Weezer and Pixies covers—then full band Musicplayer—Cj’s first time performing with us on the bass. Something went foul on my end during the second song—guitar string out of tune and distortion out of whack—I lost my focus. But we redeem ourselves on the last two songs. And it feels great.

In the poolroom chatting with Emily. A lady approaches to compliment me on Musicplayer’s set. She had wonderful constructive things to say, one of them being that she almost cried.
“Thank you.”

Out on the front porch with Ian, Alex, and Gordon.
Alex: “That’s the human experience for you…”
Becca affixed the left side of Gordon’s hair into spikes leaving the ride side normal.

Walking down the street with Gordon and Anthony with pizza on our mind.
Gordon: “There’s something about this time of night that screams pizza.”
Eating a few slices of Chanello’s.

Leaving Norfolk. We stop at that shady Shell gas station where they close off the inside and you’re forced to use the front window. Anthony buys me a Dr Pepper. I gulp enough to satisfy me and get down the pizza I had earlier. I offer him the rest. He pesters me to drink more…
Me: “No man! I only like four or five swallows. I can’t handle any more.”
Anthony: “That’s what she said.”



Back home. It’s been a long day. Darren’s uploading his thoughts and concerns into my brain over an incident involving his sister that will have to go unmentioned. I always take on the role of a mediator and try to uncover the facts, stay neutral and logical, but understanding.

His sister, Gillian, ends up in my room letting out all kinds of stories and over-analyzing thoughts, her relationship with her brother and all the downfalls she observes in him. I love to see a sibling connection in action. There’s something beautiful about a sister and a brother. She focuses on her recent break-up with someone she’s loved for over two years. At moments tears well up in her eyes—insecurity—a kind I can relate to in some way. I feel like a therapist listening to her and asking questions to better understand. Sometimes people just need a listening ear. I show her how to do automatic writing where one writes nonstop for a certain amount of time—a lot of things can surface from the subconscious but it’s a therapeutic activity to release built up thoughts and emotions. She’s impressed with the outcome. I try to stress the importance of having an outlet to release all this inner anxiety. Either way there’s a unique friendship being birthed here.

I give her that amazing autobiographical graphic novel, Blankets by Craig Thompson—to read and help her fall asleep.



Sleep 5:45 a.m.