| dewy decimal |
2004-03-07 - 12:19 p.m.
From the fucked up booger-cakes in my nose and the twisty stomach cramps that I have this morning, I begin to regret another night of indulging in too much blow. I roll over onto my arm and turn on Belle and Sebastian and roll over again and bury my face into my mound of pillows, which are six in all. I yawn before I fall back asleep.
It's 12:30 now and I'm half up, sprawled on the bed, thinking of what food I'd most like to eat. I think, chicken, or more specifically, Kentucky Fried Chicken. Then I start thinking about those PETA pampleths with the nasty pictures of debeaked chickens. Chickens with their beaks being sliced off under hot, razor-like, metal guillotines.
Ding Gong Mom has lunch. Guess what we're eating? KFC. It's settled, I am a fucking psychic.
After lunch I'm so fucking full from all the chicken batter. I read for a bit under the ceiling fan near the bay window. The Salman Rushdie book that is taking forever. The one that I'm frankly over, but can't leave half read, because it will fuck me up, the traces of OCD.
At 3, I decide that I want to go for a swim since I've been dreaming about it for the past 6 months. I put my drivers license, a ten dollar bill, goggles and Jackie O sunglasses on a red-striped towel. I fold the items up into a tight, tidy parcel and grab a mix tape for the pleasure of a car ride. I slide myself over with sun tan lotion so my body looks matte and pale; white, paba-free streaks mottle my back.
The beach looks splendid and Diamond Head stands proud and glorious through the great sunshine. The kids playing in the shorebreak look slippery, like fat seals.
As soon as I start swimming, water begins to inundate my goggles, a cheapy pair that I bought at a Walgreens in upstate New York. The whole swim I am draining out the shitty damn goggles. On top of that, I'm finding that I'm really out of shape because when I freestyle for 50 meters I have to stop and huff and puff and float as the 60 year old lawyers easily splash by with their perfected breast strokes, their glistening swimmers caps.
And when I get really tired, I lay on my back and float, closing my eyes with the sun sitting on top of my stinging, salty face and I'm weightless, travelling on the meaningless whim of the dewy breeze. I'm drifting in an airy galaxy, lolling on a speed you cannot detect.
Then, when I can't take anymore swimming and my limbs feel like rubber noodles, I make my way back to the shore where a family has moved their shit near my shit, and I tell myself to watch my dirty mouth.
I call up Sarah and Keoni, sprawled out like a manatee. Sarah tells me that she's going to have a baby in one month. Keoni says he's coming back in two weeks. Sarah's at a record store in San Diego. Keoni just finished mowing his front yard on the Big Island. Two great conversations, because I am in the perfect mood to be a perfect listener, and I forget the people around me.
At home, I thow some ribs on the grill and I go back to reading on the hammock. I eat and take a cool-almost-warm shower, I sing into the toothbrush.
At 8, I head into town and find myself in the Honolulu Parade where giant Japanese floats made of hundreds of paper lanters move through Kapiolani Blvd. which is closed for the fetsival. Drizzle descends daintily and the "Sunset on the Beach" movie is Lost in Translation. The families are all tucked in by their beach towels, watching Bill Murray sing Roxy Music.More than this/ you know there's nothing.
At Hulas I have a good laugh with Twan and Crispy about silly nonsense and at the same time I'm totally rolling my eyes at the group of guys next to me. I begin to realize that I don't like a lot of people and it starts to worry me. It starts to worry me that I'm becoming a rigid and judgemental person. I drink two pitchers, swivel my shoulders, kiss 4 friends goodnight, let the doors swing as they will.
I'm home now and I just smoked a bowl and am fucking stoned as shit. And you are reading the journal entry that I have the most stoned writing ever been. Does that make sense? Well if none of this makes sense tomorrow, my appologies.
P.S. I wish that I had a painting of today. By Matisse or Anselm Kieffer. I know it would be the shit.