10.27.2003 I am of the philosophy that there are no more important smells in a man's life than those of his lover's laundry detergent, her perfume, her shampoo. Years laters and in different contexts I am inexplicably full of emotion and short of breath.
10.26.2003 There was a moment on stage last night, during the first sketch of the night, when Joel and I were alone on stage and he forgot his lines. Pathetically, I didn't know his lines either--only knew how to follow them--and all of a sudden we were in a very real moment from which we would not be able to escape. There were a few seconds of quiet panic while we both soaked up the reality of the situation. On stage, pauses feel very long. Four-hundred people were waiting for one of us to say something, and so were we. This is many people's greatest fear. Among the props we had assembled on stage was a plate of Oreos, and I split one in half and licked out the filling. We had joked earlier in the day that if either of us forgot our lines, we would say: "It doesn't matter now, man--because the bombs are falling." And while he didn't say it, we could both feel it happening.
10.24.2003 We're putting on a show tomorrow night, and I think that this is the least enthusiastic I've been before a performance. Which is an odd feeling. Normally I'm frantic the night before. Normally my eyes feel heavy for having been open for days without rest. Last night I watched a movie in bed before falling asleep for nearly nine hours.
I suppose this is an appropriate time to mention my nine-hour nightmare. It was horrible. I woke up five or six times, each time from an extension of the same nightmare, and each time I fell asleep I drifted right back into it.
The plot of the dream was very similar to that of 28 Days Later, except many fewer people had been infected, so it was probably more like 8 or 9 days later. However, the dilemma was much the same--senseless, wrathful, human-like creatures were everywhere, and those of us who had remained uninfected could only think to hide. I found some magnificent hiding places too, except the second I found a good spot, a bunch of other people would try to hide there as well, until finally the spot would be so obviously conspicuous that I would become uncomfortable and once again begin the search for a safe spot to hide.
From one of my spots, closed within a locker, I could see the spot I had hidden only moments before, and could watch as the conspicuous group who had invaded my place were horribly torn apart by the screaming creatures. This was, in fact, my final hiding spot, because no one ever came for me, and I died slowly of starvation.
10.23.2003
Tell me baby tell me
are you still on the stoop
watching the windows close
I've not seen seen you lately
on the street, by the beach
or places we used to go
I've a picture of you
on our favorite day by the seaside
there's a bird stealing bread
that I brought out from under my nose
Tell me baby tell me
does his company make
light of a rainy day
how I've missed you lately
and the way we would speak
and all that we wouldn't say
Do his hands in your hair
feel a lot like a thing you believe in
or a bit like a bird stealing bread
out from under your nose
Tell me baby tell me
do you carry the words
around like a key or change
I've been thinking lately
of a night on the stoop
and all that we wouldn't say
If I see you again
on the street, by the beach
in the evening
will you fly like a bird stealing bread
out from under my nose
10.22.2003 I've been having a recurring dream. A psychology professor of mine once decribed the physiological value of dreaming, how dreaming is theorized to be of incredible significance in a therapeutic sense, as if in allowing our unconscious minds to wander freely and rehash the details of our days we somehow regain some mental homeostasis. I keep dreaming that my room has curtains. I know I've neglected to mention that I've found a room in a house and am no longer homeless, but it's true and I have a room and it has no curtains. Which doesn't bother me in the least. So why do I keep dreaming that my room has curtains? And it's not like I notice the curtains across the room while I'm having sex with a supermodel, the entire dream consists of me noticing the curtains and thinking, "What nice curtains!" This represents just one of the ways that my mind disappoints me on a regular basis. I could do anything in a dream, and most nights I just dream of taking drink orders and waiting on customers. A few nights ago I woke up in a panic because I thought that I had forgotten to bring someone an iced tea they had ordered. Everyone always seems to be casually mentioning the amazing things that happen to them in dreams--often involving sex, mind you--while my subconscious is busy picking out wallpapers patterns. I can only vaguely recall once having sex in a dream, and even then it was probably with a clerk at a fabric store.
10.20.2003 "Is there something I can help you find?" "Yes, actually. I'm looking for metal handcuffs. I know you used to carry them, I've bought them here before."
The contents of my cart included, among other things, a leopard-skin bra, a bottle of canola oil, a queen-size fitted bed sheet, and enough plastic sheeting to cover a room twenty times over.
"Did you look in the toy department?" she asked me, glancing into my cart and holding her gaze on what was most probably the women's lingerie I had tried to hide under several rolls of electrical tape.
"Yep. That was the first place I looked."
"Well, if you didn't find them there, I don't know what to tell you."
She looked like she wanted to ask what I needed them for, and I made a point to thank her and leave before she had the chance to ask.
I went to the hospital today because something is curiously wrong with my body. And while nothing was achieved by this visit from a medical standpoint, I did walk away with a bracelet with my name on it (mispelled, 'Benjamen'). While affixing the bracelet, the receptionist asked whether I wanted to declare a religious association in case a member of the clergy needed to be called. I asked her to have the clergyman call me a doctor, and then made the same joke again when she asked who should be contacted in case of an emergency. My mother is skimming through the rest of this paragraph in horror wondering whether I'm all right, and by noting this detail I am only delaying my response and adding to her panic. To put her at ease, I will say now that there is nothing so wrong with me that a doctor felt the need to take any action, or indeed to spend more than three minutes with me. Not that I blame him, of course, for it seemed a little ridiculous for me to be in the emergency room, seated only feet from a boy with a protruding bone, after eating a leisurely breakfast and driving there of my own accord.
