Tuesday, July 5, 2016. Pan fresco diariamente, on the awning of a Mexican deli on an industrial stretch of Vernon Boulevard. in Long Island City…buying bread, ritual, routine.
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 1:24 AM – Constant burning pain in my stomach and throat. Hot night. Both air conditioners humming. Light turns green and reflects off a windshield of a red pickup with it’s back covered in a black tarp (what’s underneath?) parked in front of the building and I start as I see it in the periphery of my vision and don’t know immediately what it is. I’m on edge. Anxious. Is it the story? The writing. Orange “Don’t walk” hand sign reflects off windows of the car in front of the pickup – dark color – that reflection makes me uneasy. These thoughts will run wild like the cars that keep passing but I’ll try to rest even with this relentless burning pain in my stomach. A guy on a bike with a red flashing light below the seat pointing to the back rides by at this hour, headed north on Vernon. Where’s he going? Wool hat, brown T-shirt, shorts. Did he just get off work? Out for a night ride? I don’t want to look up anymore for more cars, people and thoughts come with everything I see. Even the glow of the street lamps seems eerie. The wires. Power lines. Every light. A yellow cab drove up from Sal Anzalone way, came into my vision out of the corner of my eye and it mildly scared the shit out of me because I didn’t know what it was. Till I saw what it was.
Everything looks perfect from far away, “Such Great Heights,” Postal Service
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 1:28 AM – Don’t forget to write down that thought of getting buried alive, forced into a coffin, nailed shut and put under the ground, the last awful moments in each other’s arms.
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 1:29 AM – Day and night I work on this story and it works on me. Good night. Heat. Warm. Even with two air conditioners blasting.
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 2:47 AM – As I drift off, images of two young men, one with longer, shaggy, shoulder-length hair, each of them gagged and bound.
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 2:53 AM – And of course, the light. The reflection of it as I look down and it stares at me even as I look away, it shines on me from above and its reflection bounces up at me and into my eyes. Relentless. Searing. Like nerves. Burning into my vision. Sharp image of the bulb. Like a zapping sound. Reflections. Like those I saw in the corner of my eye earlier, and now. Out the window. Nerves. Burning. Nerve endings. Raw. Zzzzap.
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 3:24 AM – Words echo still, bounce off the walls of my mind. In the willows, in the way. In the willows. In the way. In the willows. In the way. And so, on repeating.
Not sleeping, but chill, wide awake.
Wed, Jul 6, 2016 at 3:34 AM – In the willow, in the way. Scrawled. How does that connect to avocados and to bartending?
From Lion Mail to Gmail. Switched. From left to right. Or, A side to B side, as Michael said. Flipped. Transitioned. Process.