What a bewitching time of day, 5:38am.

I'm awake. I mean really. I'm tired but after I make some coffee, I'll be set. This is the world for me all filled with trucks beeping an account of their backing up, and cars going home from their one night stands, very quickly.

I have two hard weeks left.

In the course of one night I had two friends/whatever's, girls that is . . . that is to say two girls, tell me that "the ball's in my court" and that I should call them when I have time because they know I'm busy. One of them got a first hand look and still is asking what I'm doing this evening.

ah Jesus. Come on people.

If I wanted to really hang out I would make a concerted effort. That's where everyone is wrong. Yes, I am busy. Yes I would like to hang out. But no, I do not feel like giving my time to you, right now, but rather only when I have an abundance. Do I have to say it? Isn't it obvious?

I don't have time for you now because I don't want to have time for you now. Real sorry. Stop the guilt trips, I know where the ball is. You're passive aggressivenes makes you very ugly to me and no, I don't want to sleep with that.

I'll be at Spot trying to finish a book for the rest of the weekend and all throughout August. That is with the exception of tonight wherein later on, I will be at a certain bar after stopping at a certain coffee shop. This, I am greatly looking forward to.

To Springfaerie, real quick, I haven't read shit, but what I do read is completely consistant of what I like to write, if that shed's any light. Although I'd like to, I'm not going to be picking up Gone With the Wind any time soon.

Incidentally, if anyone knows of a free trial program that will allow me to record voice and a song here and there on a two to four track system, please let me know where I can get my hands on that. I thank you epeeps.

To all you pseudo doctors or medical enthusiasts out there, I have a favor to ask.

How long can a man (or a stickboy) function on less than three hours of sleep a night before extreme mental and physical collapse is achieved. I don't want to get there. It would take way too much time to make my way back into the realm of reality.

So someone must know of a study, or something they heard, or something. I would verily appreciate the info as I have to do so many other things in the next eight days.

Incidentally, in class this morning after artificially keeping myself coherent for the majority of the night, I began to shudder and shake and have severe anxiousness which made me look like some guy who was a full moon away from becoming a werewolf. It was extremely uncomfortable, especially to that pristine girl to my left who heard me sigh and moan, moving because I have to, not because I want to.

Then again, I might be a werewolf.

Any info on if I might be a werewolf would be appreciated as well.

I asked myself the other day if anyone deserves to die. I then talked myself out of the entire premise seeing as though no one deserves anything.

But then I'm at Pano's enjoying my third cup of coffee of the hour and an overly decorated cheesecake, desperately trying to prolong the morning. I'm reading Crime and Punishment, Dostoyevsky. The thought above is still in my head when I read this line:

"Of course she doesn't deserve to live," the officer observed, "But then that's nature."

I've convinced myself that coincidences are as common to me as that drop of rain hitting the gutter in perfect time I hear right now, but that one . . . thinking that then reading that did so mess with my mind and I now feel anxious. The reason why I asked the question above at all is yet to be explored, but I'll dive in that one day. Now for some over the counter pick me ups . . .

Incidentally, I'm seriously toying with my threshold in which, of course, lies my feeble attempt to block any desire to just let the absurdity get to me for once and for all.

Half of you are sleeping. Half of you are curious. Half of you are scared at what will happen. And the fourth half of you don't give a shit.

I like you guys, did I ever tell you that . . .

And as Bob once said . . . in Jersey anything's legal, as long as you don't get caught.

stay tuned . . .

click.

I'd like to propose a toast.

To the girl in the deli right by my house who had me stammering over my order because of the simple way she smirked and smiled while she wrote down on a pad, so eloquently, so full of passion - md. turkey w/let, tom, prov n mayo.

Ah it made my hour.

I shall return to see if we'll still have that intensity I just described. I probably won't do it for a week or two, to keep her guessing of course. I'll eventually learn her name. Her Dad will joke with me about using cell phones. Then, after about three months, I'll say let's cut the ham sandwich girl, and like Bruce Springsteen in Asbury Park I'll say, "Tie up your apron bebe. You're coming with me."

Then she'll say something about how her favorite book is something J.K. Rowling wrote, and I'll sigh. We'll do it for maybe three months, but that one nagging notion will be present with every ass grab, every too loud moan, every time she says, please, can we shut off the lights.

But you're beautiful bebe and I's wants to see dat.

Nah, I don't think so.

Well okay.

It'll come to pass that I loved her immensely whilst she made sandwiches. But even I am willing to prolong what I understand to be the potential for disaster.

There's always subway now isn't there.

So I did the movie thing. They need better questions, but . . .

Looks like I'd be in Fight Club too.

There's a fucking shocker, huh.

Well naked people, there you go. . .

This is after I just pummeled the shit out of a 29 year old marketing manager who once called me "Big Guy" in a saftey meeting.

And please don't use that gate into my psyche as an opportunity to piss me off.

I thank you.

There's an air of madness in the air.

Let's say air a few more times, hmm . . .

I walk down to the Pink to find Paul and a cheesburger, both offer benefits to my conversation with a newcastle. I get a smoke and a desire to head to Mother's which besides the Manhattan's which I know you loved, the atmosphere wreaked of Ertha Kitt. Faherty's it is and Ween awaits as it always does. We picked the wrong song, just so's you know, but fuck it. Two in the morning there's a drink in my hand, dirty martini. By the way, I'm excited at the potential (here he goes again) of the elusive meetings betwixt myself and a glass of Tanqueray. Oh yes, and you. You were there, I should remind you of that.
So I get my dog and return whilst normals sleep. In my craft or sullen art, oh wait Thomas said that. I say, what a beautiful night and right now Josie's on a vacation far away, (dat's for Emily, one day to meet on a porch not so far away) . . .

If anyone has any idea what I'm talking about . . . good. If not, PAY ATTENTION.

Next time I mean . . .

Do it all tomorrow, once again my friend.

ha.

I awoke at 5:08 to a beautiful woman dimly lit by the vague Rhode Island sunrise peaking through an orange bedsheet hung from nails above a window.

I lied.

The things holding the would be curtain weren't nails but a form of hook I'll never find in any Home Depot. But that's not what disturbed me. I fell in love this weekend. I fell in love with romance, passion and the inevitable conversation telling me that I have to go, she has to stay, it won't work, but in the meantime, let me carry you to your room only to not think and just do for the remainder of the night until we wake at 5:08.

I rode on my motorcycle through 15 different climates in three states. I fell asleep in middle of the Service station parking lot sprawled out on top of my bike, mouth open, probably half erect, and thinking of young girls with dresses that button from the front.

I would make it home eventually. Eventually I say because the time effaced itself from my life. I now sit here, thinking of Newport and banal conversations about how things could be and wonder if I should give it any more effort.

Not could be, were, I mean. What things are, well, she's not here, but then, even when I'm there, she never truly is. But then . . .

I like it that way says the tattooed cowboy on his mechanical horse riding off into the sunset of rain and pollution wishing only that he had arms around his waist for five more long bleeding warm petrified minutes.

You won't fall off, I assure you kid.

Hold on.

Every ending is a beginning. Repeat that ten times then call me me if the problem persists.

Yeah well, I've decided. I will not sastify you people with ideas and thoughts of gossip of who I think of at a certain time at a certain place, nay, no, not so.

I will spare the puppies of the world, for I am tired.

alas.

y'all have a great weekend. I shirley will.

She sat there watching, or at least looking my way, last night. I thought nothing of it.

I saw her at the same place today and she gave me a smile that said, you should talk to me. I knew it. You always know when you should, but again, it's the kinetic that I always have difficultly with.

So I did.

I know you, or I've met you before.
-Maybe
You know such and such.
-Yeah I know such and such. My name's so and so.
Hi, I'm this and that
-who?
thi . . . this and that
-hi (smile)

I was nervous. She said she saw me before and so my allegations were right. I felt like saying, it's my dog isn't it, or, you've noticed the shnazzy haircut I gave myself at 5 this morning, but what I said, after odd converstation about why we go to this place is:

okay we'll I'm sure I'll see you around.

She looked at me like, that's it. I'm looking intensly into your eyes (this is her talking to herself wanting to say this to me) and you leave with out engaging in a pleasant conversation on this amazing day, after you just found you've gotten an A in physics. Tell me that you're not just going to walk away.

I did. I like her and that's why I did. Who knows what she is or why she is, but she seems, well, new.

I like new. Who knows if I'll like her, but yet one more reason to leave my house, and that my people is why I get up in the morning.

Or at least why I got up today. Tommorrow is another story.


incidentally, robin, I feel for you. You're shittiness has made you immune to it for four years is what I figure. And if I see you at the Pink tonight at 1am, the whiskey is on me.