defiance, not passing out while driving

a small but significant accomplishment for me: driving from san diego to covina-- and not feeling sleepy once!

as such, I would like to thank the following things that aided in achieving this goal:

1. The damp wet-dog smell of Victor's van, to which no bottle of Febreez could vanquish.
2. Kettle chips (i.e. Black Pepper & Sea Salt flavor)
3. A loud and mostly incoherent Ken-Chan, who kept moving back and forth within the van, talking aloud about how hot he thought David's sister was.*
4. A louder and mostly inebriated Elliot.

....

I was supposed to have two meetings today regarding websites I'm designing (aka bottomless conversation about something that should really only take an hour to discuss) but instead I'm going to visit Evvy in Burbank. It's weird, but abscence does make the heart grow fonder, as I find myself missing living with her (FROM TIME TO TIME, FROM TIME TO TIME!)

Right now it's cold, damp, and rainy. A hot irish coffee and a Tove Jansson book sound nice.







* you think it'd be awkward for David, but we both kind of want Ken-Chan to go out with Lisa.

sobbing side-by-side

i can't shake the image in my head of him, running with hot tears streaming down his cheeks, fervently searching for signs-- just one sign-- one fucking sign, of his mother somewhere lost on a sandy shore. his hands shake, his stomach and chest hollow and twist, as he trembles uncontrollably beneath a pier, fighting the thought of her dead. i can't remove the still of him suddenly relapsing back into a child, running with skinned knees, scraping, screaming, crying out for her.

i wish i could've hugged him longer and somehow let myself absorb some the confusion and pain he's already drenched in. for far too long.

he may not be aware of it, but I collect all his stories for the precious gems that they are; the man that almost kidnapped him as a child, his radial bone that healed incorrectly, the math homework that ruined any semblance of a father-figure in his life. in the midist of all our sobbing he recalls his most favorite memory of her (a beautiful garden in morning rain, walking together under the serenity of an umbrella) and I practically cave in.

...

I find myself praying before going to bed, again. Regardless of all those Richard Dawkins books I've been sifting through lately, nothing can replace the consolation of knowing someone's thoughts are always at your side, waiting to be reached, waiting to remedy.

peels & sleep

I said five minutes.

I should of told him tomorrow morning.