12 October, 2005
zen parking lot profiling

cardboard boxes are slowly finding their way into corners of every room as Yoko ever-so-slowly gathers what she wants to carry away with her.
some days, it seems like she's just playing some mindfuck charade to see if i'll break down into wails and beg her not to go.
other days, it's as if all's right with the world... like we're adults that can maturely deal with going our separate but equal ways.

it just depends upon what day it might be when i wake up.

that's old news... primarily why i hesitate to bulk this journal up with it.

there have been some bizarre twists of late, though... as if there's some unspoken need for others to give impromptu zen psychic readings, for my benefit.

the daily uncertainty has put my creative juices on hold, which has spilled over into the radio program: when i'm not there, i consider never returning. when i am, i'm enslaved.

more screwed up commitment issues. jeez.

naturally. the calls have become more rare, thanks to the incessant training i've done since July, for those that want to substitute--more airtime for the trainees, less for the DJ. hell, nobody knows when i'm there, anymore.

so, i was ambivalent when i was done. Yoko had come along, since i assume she was bored with nothing but romance novels and TV at home... Biggles rang up during the show to invite us for dinner. not wanting to show up without something to contribute, i drove across town to the grocery for some Boddington's and asiago cheese bread, then to the asian market for some fish sauce, coconut milk, and sandalwood soap to bring home.

no sooner had i switched off the ignition and prepared to stub out my cigarette in the ashtray, i noticed a black guy ambling through the parking lot. his facial features bore a strong resemblance to an african-drummer friend, so i noted the coincidence and nothing more.

then, he stopped outside my window, partially rolled down against the threatening skies, and asked me if i had a light for his cigarette, his matches looking worse for wear.

"sure", i said, grabbing a bic from the console. "kinda tough to get a spark with the sky so thick".

"yeah. hey, thanks, man. where you from?"

i told him about my hometown, thirty miles away. peculiarly enough, he had worked at the same construction contractor that my brother had, years ago. knew the same names. the way there.

well-and-good.

then he said, "i bet you're an artist".

at first, i thought he was just bullshitting me... fluffing my ego for some unexpected request. but he said,

"i can tell you got something else going on, different from most. what you need to do, is take it to the next level... go on past what you been doing. you been holding back. take it up to that next level."

then, as quickly as he appeared, he said "thanks. good evening, n' take it easy", and disappeared in the rearview.

fuck...

...it was zen profiling in the parking lot.

then, later, Biggles berated me for letting others horn in on "my" radio show. told me i was losing my identity.

am i missing something that people can read on my face?

me, i'm just looking for those steps to that next level that've been hiding themselves.

.