3-15 Sat 1:05 PM
Laying in bed. The Dodgers just beat the Orioles in Tampa. There are clothes all over the floor, but the pillow cases are fresh. Shirelle's dad thinks I stole her car. I read the LA Times. The story on Arab/Isreali relations depresses me. Despair is on the rise. These sheets need to be washed. I feel drained. Shirelle just walked in and saw I was writing and walked out, then in again, and out once more. Getoff and I had a little jam session yesterday. The Dodgers have great individual talent, but they're not much of a team. Rick Monday is talking with Todd Worrell about muscle mechanics and accuracy to within eight inches. Shirelle's pager just went off. I washed the dishes. My mom just delivered my treadmill. I've got to use it definitely before school starts. What else? I'm falling asleep. Shirelle is going to need help buying a car now. I guess I'm going to have to ride out with her to Monrovia in the Chrysler. We're on our way out there now. If my writing gets bumpy, blame it on the road. The top is up, but we're piping in a little Cuban rhumba. Dark brother doin the Walkman up Crenshaw. I did my fifteen minutes of typing. I feel like brain's been stole, my spirit sapped by unrighteousness. It's a nice day. You could almost see Gabriel descend from the wisp in the blue. Stop and go freeway wheezes through downtown's paltry skyline. The traffic is making us late. Historic Arroyo Seco Parkway is covered in grafitti. Now where in Pasadena. Anarchy in Albania.
I need to whip through this now. I can read Neruda poems all the way home. I've got to read Kathleen's story soon, too. What else? There's just nothing to say. Shirelle has some cop-killing rap coming over the radio now. Tell 'em a hooka-smoking caterpillar has given you the call. Feed your head. I hope we're not too late.