Weirdness here in this early morning London flat. I spent time talking to an unexpected caller. Too much time. I sat outside the door like so many early mornings on 2658 Menlo, clutching a quilted blanket and shivering against my indecisiveness. My legs are numb now. I woke up from my half-heavy sleep with dreams of shooting two people. I couldn't go back to sleep so I just sat awake, drenched in sweat, waiting for rest that never came. I am not feeling okay this morning. I want to buy a new camera. In the grey, grey morning light of London I feel differently about the robbery than I did in the colored excitement of the club. My tight muscles and knitted forehead are reminding me that I am no longer as young as I used to be. Today, I am going to take a long shower, wash my hair twice, get bundled up and change the way I feel. I'll buy a calling card, call my mother and father again, find an internet cafe to blog and write and email, read Tom Robbins, write postcards to Dylan and Vicki and Lizzy Carley, BUY A NEW CAMERA?... maybe... How can I spend the rest of this vacation without one? I want to wander the streets of Europe with a camera in hand, a rest from my poet's curse... a stab at a new expression, well, an old expression with a new house. I just want a new camera. Am I being silly? Maybe, most likely, but when have I ever, ever denied my urges? I can't remember a time. Should I be more mature at this point? Probably. I should be sleeping, I should be better with money, I should write more, I should apply to more schools, I should I should I should. For now, I'll do what I can.
