Monday

. . . not in my seat much . . .

. . . mining our own dumps and landfills . . .

Tuesday

I did not have to drive to work for five years, before Florida. When I lived in DC, I just took the metro to work. The worse I had to worry about was somebody bumping shoulders with me and not saying excuse me. Now that I am driving to work again, and I have to drive into and through downtown, and back out the other side - now that I am forced to make these terrible drives every day - I get to the parking lot at work, and I park my car, and I am shaking. I am upset: angry, a bit scared, adrenaline drunk and bewildered. Today it occured to me that a lot of people just do not value their lives very much. Why risk your life so crazily behind the wheel? I mean - is your life that cheap . . . that you have to come flying up from behind dense traffic a hundred and twenty miles-per-hour and just weave weave weave through traffic, a foot or two away from somebody’s bumper - one hundred and forty in the far right lane so people can’t even get to their off ramp, passing cars within inches sometimes - leaving absolutely no margin for error. Are the lives of these people this worthless to them? I'll tell you what: My life is valuable to me.

Or are these people hopeless thrill junkies who have to be on the red line every time they drive - even through parking lots with moms unloading their kids and maybe a kid gets away from the mom when she’s reaching from the other kid, and the stray kid wanders in front of Mr. Eighty Miles-Per-Hour In The Parking Lot Asshole Barbarian and then BAM! Dead kid. What is the rush? Your job ain’t that important, pal, it’s not like you work in the emergency room. And even if you do work in the emergency room, why create more work for yourself?

I am worried that one day, on my perilous journey to work, somebody is going to ride my bumper on that last street, the last leg of the journey to work - they'll be right there on my ass, and I'll be fuming. They’ll pull into the parking lot right behind me, and I’ll realize that they work for the same company as I do. I get out of my car and charge up to this person and get right in their face and tell them that they drive like an asshole, and they’ll be stunned, “What? What?” And I’ll be right there in their face yelling at them about how badly they drive and how much of an asshole they are even though they are the chief officer of . . . whatever, and they’ll think that I am the out of control asshole . . . because they are so used to driving like a maniac, it’s normal behavior for them . . . I mean: I am not being a chicken here, I am pondering this equation that people impose on their lives and the lives of others: the arrival at work a few minutes earlier is more important than your life, the thrills that somebody gets from driving fast is more important than your life.

Friday

Those jazz recordings where you can hear the sounds of busboys clattering dishes and the barely palpable rise and fall of kitchen noise as waiters push through the kitchen door . . . this session was recorded at a really jumping restaurant, and the mics are picking up everything . . . even some of the chatter of customers at the tables . . . even the crash of some stoned busboy who has just annihilated an entire tray of champagne glasses because he slipped on some melted butter . . . and I’m hearing this recording on my car radio on WUCF, this great jazz station down here, as I drive down the highway . . . it reminds me of when I used to work in restaurants. I always knew jazz was cool, but I wasn’t into it. Like - into it into it. Now I am sort of into it. But only as part of a total, general, rampant music exploration I’ve been on lately. This exploration has led me into every direction - all types of music. Because there’s only so much you can do with the typical rock and roll lineup - drums, vocals, guitar - maybe two, bass. I still love that stuff, but I’m exploring other stuff now too.

It’s great. The jazz tunes - the melodies - the outlines of the songs - they’re already in my head - from those many nights lugging around trays and racks of glasses, cases of booze and bus pans - that jazz music was playing in the restaurants where I worked, sometimes live. I knew those tunes were cool. I knew they were important. I just didn’t know the names or the history. I still don’t know much, but those tunes are in my head, and now that I listen to this jazz station, and I hear DJ’s like Allan Rock, talking about these musicians and these sessions and the history . . .

Monday

. . . my crimes, sins and mistakes can’t be that bad . . . I wish I knew more about the crimes, sins and mistakes of others . . .
I pulled up to an intersection today, and I wondered, “What’s next?” I mean - I knew where I was going at that moment. I was going to Walmart. I needed a tarp, trash bags and a stop watch. I needed these things for this murder I was planning. Ha. No. The tarp is for our bikes outside, to keep them dry. The trash bags are for trash. The stopwatch is to get into better shape by walk/running a set distance more and more quickly. If you wore a stopwatch constantly, and you timed yourself doing everything you do, would you gradually become quicker and quicker and more efficient in all the things that you do? Would that really help? Would that bring you to your dying day more quickly? Or you’d just fit more in before you die? That’s just morbid and sarcastic of me to say. But what if you did carry around a stop watch and just know how much time you spent doing everything? You know?

I had pulled up to an intersection and wondered what was next, even though I knew what was next - what was next immediately was Walmart - I just didn’t know what was next in the way of 1. a job, and 2. writing, and obviously the two would never ever be one and the same even though I wish they would be. I am having a tough time finding a job, a real job, a job to earn a little ‘right now’ money so’s I can start paying bills, instead of living off savings, the majority of which is not at all money I have saved, but money inherited, money from the proceeds of the sale of mom and dad’s house, and mom and dad always said: Use it for your own house some day (which still may be possible) but for now it is paying for me to wait around for fickle HR people to judge my life up to this point and my potential . . . I tried this one job. I went one day, but I did not make it back the next day. I made up a fantastic lie to tell the people because some of them - I didn’t want to hurt their feelings, I cared enough to at least make up a lie, and I also wanted to try to stall a bit. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to quit outright, so I made this crazy spontaneous decision on the way to the job - I told them I got in a wreck, but that I was okay but my car was mangled (a car bought mostly with inheritance money, though my dad said specifically, don’t go buy some fancy car with the house money, I bought a 99 Taurus with just under 60,000 miles on it), and so I wouldn’t make it in . . . like . . . any time soon . .. or something . . . and then I didn’t know what I meant - what I was doing - why I was even calling them. . . and even as I was saying this outlandish story into their voice mail system and hesitating here and there in my amazing account and staring across this field which had the occasional clump of palm trees and a bulldozer already kicked up dust a couple of miles into this vast field and a garbage truck idled nearby (and it stunk) and already the heat distorting the vista and making it tough to breath, so that I am gulping between syllables of the lie - even as I said this fantastic lie into the phone, it already started to sound ridiculous, and then I hung up and just drove around tripping out about how weird it was for me to have done that. And then I got a Sausage McMuffin from McDonalds and unwrapped it and set it on the seat and just looked at it. “Accounting, maybe,” I thought. Maybe I should go back to school for accounting. Because, you see, this thing I wrote and sent to this journal - I have not heard back yet, and I put everything into it, everything I have, it was my best try, and I, at one point in writing it, mused that I would not write stuff anymore if this thing didn’t hit, because this was my whole life - my life’s most poignant moments (I thought), this was also my creativity completely maxed out completely - flown as high as I could fly it, this was craft in my best understanding of it - utilized to the best of my ability, my very best try at my most likely niche, and now I don’t know where to start up again - I mean this was it, and it is a major let down - I don’t know for sure, but it seems like it’s been much too long. And I can’t find a decent job. And Florida is not as terrific as I had hoped, it’s not paradise, and the other day I thought, “Woah, what if I just fuckin died and shit,” not that I want to die, but life just seems like nothing but a fuckin goddamn worthless struggle and for what? I ain’t got no friends and so the only human contact I get is the fuckin finger from some guy in traffic or some dummy standing breathing distance on my neck behind me in line at Walmart and my only victory today was judging which line would go the quickest at Walmart, which is a fuckin rare accomplishment indeed.

Thursday


I have owned some pretty old and junkie cars. It’s funny when I’m watching reruns of dated TV shows, and I see my car being driven around by some character in the show - but the car is all new and shiney! On TV the car seems less ridiculous and more significant.
. . . acting classes - to be a more convincing liar . . .

Wednesday

. . . can't wait to go to Cuba . . .

Florida: You'll see more chest hair than you normally would prefer to.

Tuesday

Florida: Were those your pants blowing by outside?
. . . eroding the earth like a good little grain of dirt . . .