Tonight, I’m feeling reckless. Dangerous. And that’s, generally speaking, NOT GOOD. For me. And many times, for those whose paths I cross.
It’s 10:12 pm on a Tuesday. Late for me, as of late. But tonite, it feels unGODly early. I’ve lived a lot of life today, for one day. After 6 hours of dead-to-the-world deep sleep –but permeated by some of the most visceral, and raunchiest– REAL-like dreams ever- I jump out of bed at 8am. Early for me these days. I thrust my arms in the air, and force a smile upon my lips. I’ve planned to do A LOT today. And damned if I won’t. Yet, my heart beats hard, fast, and the anxiety is palpable. Ramome rolls to his back, head in my lap. He knows our morning routine. I hold him, stroke his belly. Kiss him. Tell him what a good, great boy he is, and a good, great friend. He smiles, smiles, smiles. And I do too.
Up. Out of bed. Read the Course, take it in. My heart slows. Call Kas, my African partner. I tell him it’s time to “officially” postpone our Congo dates. After a bit of back and forth, he’s on board with my agenda. On the floor. Move. Stretch. Waking up, feeling better. In the pool, laps, feeling more better. Hit the dumbbells for 200 reps. They’re light, but it feels good.
Drop Ramone at Angela Bassett Hound Brady-Joles for a play date and I go to set-up shop in Jinky’s. Because I know, I just know, I’ll go dark, if I sit indoors, by myself all day. Five cups of coffee loaded with sugar. I sit for five hours, my ass going numb, and in that period of time, dividing my time pretty-damn-well-near-equally – Africa, Reality TV, Management—I get more done in half a day than most do in a week. Sounds arrogant as all hell, I know, but it’s just how it is.
I rebook the Africa dates for February. Write a brilliant press release, that industry leader Levine Communications pledges to get out hard. Write a Business Plan for Rebirth Productions, my Reality Shows business that Troy has requested, and pledges to get funded. Write the entire plan for the Female Division of Larger Than Life Management, and get 5 major Agencies on board in a major way. 15 of the industries’ top fitness models pick up my call – 15 for 15—and they’re all on board.
I break only because it’s time to go to the Docs. My appointment is at 2:45 and I already feel like I have 3 days work behind me. I have created a myth for this appointment; solely as an excuse to get a new scrip for Norco. And after X-rays, I learn that a disc in my neck needs to get fused. No insurance these days. Fucking lovely.
I fill my scrip in the pharmacy downstairs. Angela, the counter girl, comes on. Or at least I think she is. More so every time I see her. She’s nice, she’s cute. And I’m in love. Not with her, but with another I’ve had little outlet with, and which is markedly, obviously, decreasing to the point of near extinction. What do I do? Still, nothing. For now. Angela validates my ticket – for the entire 2 hours I’ve been there (thank you)—I buy a Redbull from her fridge, and am washing down a Norco with it on the way to my car.
5 minutes later and I’m flying high. I pick up Ramone, who reeks, but is so happy to see me that I’m ecstatic to see him. We make out pretty much the entire way home, and I’m back at work. I check my e-mail. Flooded with almost nothing but support on ALL fronts from what I’ve put out today.
I’m crazed. Frenetic. Ecstatic. Hopeful. Despite the notion that I must look like a multi-millionaire to most, and maybe, just maybe/probably, will be soon, I’m nearly out of money. Again. It doesn’t hit me hard though this time. This time, I redouble my effort, my conviction. And then minutes later, I have a deal done in principal for my Clients and Friends, Butterbean and Tank, to fight each other in Montreal on December 3. 50k each. That’s a ten thousand dollar commission, right out of the gate. Before “bonuses.” Wish I had that now. It’s okay. We’ll get by; me and Ramone.
Fact is, I’m alone. Well, I have Ramone. But the two of us, we need very little. And when I think of this, calm ensues. But then, just as quickly, I want to provide. For others. And for myself. An outlet for the oft all-consuming love that I feel.
It’s dark, and I’m gonna go for round 2 in the pool. I strip naked and dive in. I notice Cindy sitting poolside. Hadn’t noticed her in the dark. I get 20 lengths out, and am feeling good. I’m pretty sure she averts her eyes when I get out of the pool, but it’s hard to tell. It’s dark. I nuke some sake, and it’s so hot, it burns my lips and throat going down. But it feels gooood. I decide I need to get out. I ask Cin if she’ll watch Ramone. “No Problem.” I go back in and get caught up in reading a section of my book. It actually makes me cry. MY own writing. Maybe I’m on the right track.
I get sushi at Shiki. And think. Zone. And make notes. Leaving my phone in the car, I want nothing to do with nobody. I read about Charles Bukowski’s “More Notes of a Dirty Old Man.” I’m reading about writing. Irony. And thinking that I’m feeling like he must have felt. I feel confident. And empowered. And unstable. And angry. And unloved. And loving. ALL AT THE SAME TIME.
I’m sitting on my couch. It’s 10:49 pm. Im feeling dark. Dangerous. Or I want to. Haven’t felt this for a while. Something’s not jibing. But I like it. Yet, truly, how dark and dangerous can I feel sitting on my couch? I look amongst the darkest DVDs I own, and select “Buffalo Soldiers.” Ramone jumps on my lap, flips over onto his back, and accidentally rakes his paw across my cheek. A thin rivulet of blood streams down my face. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. He looks at me, apologetically. But I just kiss him and tell him it’s okay, all the same.
In the opening scene of “Buffalo Soldiers,” after an in-barracks football accident, Joaquin Phoenix calmly, unemotionally, pronounces a young soldier dead. Perfect. It sets the mood. It complements the mood. Perfect.
Troy calls. He loves the work I’ve done. Says getting the money is not gonna be a problem. Gonna be shooting 10 sizzle reels within the next 4 months. Yeah, we’ll see. (gotta drop the cynicism; it’s getting me NOWHERE fast).
Okay. I pop a Norco and a new buzz hits. Hard. Freshly renewed. Perfect. I love. I’m happy. I love. I’m sad. I work. I’m exhilarated. I’m exhausted. I Want. I Don’t care. I’m just numb. Okay. Good. I think. God. There’s a lot of life to live yet. Even tonight. I’m gonna live it, or die trying.
Fuck it. Ramone. Wingman. Let’s get it.