Current location:	Bed!
Current mood:	hungry
Current music:	Beirut - really great music, interesting charge.

Dreamish Creamer, Crooner
It seems that it's only possible for me to partake in any social activity 20% of the time, now - when solicited with offers at random.

Planning relatively far in advance is also a possibility, now and again, but a lovely night with Denis yesterday was only had because he had the good fortune to call immediately after I'd gotten home from work, and immediately before I'd started work on something else.

Vivid dreams last night... the last few weeks have been full of them, in fact.

So far as I can tell, this resurgence has something to do with not having smoked any marijuana in several weeks.

1.
My executive producer and I have relocated the office to a large and dilapidated house in an industrial park outside Hamilton. After arguing about the presence of an unusual number of chess pieces one time too many, I walk out in a bit of a fit.

I board a night flight to Tangier, where I find myself the next morning, on the edge of a water-filled cube teeming with wide-eyed diving youth. I jump in, and sink to the bottom, seeing perfectly in the strangely clear water, watching headless girls bob and sway in starkly coloured bikinis for what seems like hours.

Eventually, I surface, and move to a grocery store, where I'm fascinated by searching out Mini-Wheats and canned meats priced with letters, rather than numbers. "You'll pay with your words" someone invisible mutters to me from a darkened condiments aisle.

2.
A video is popped into the cassette player, and immediately the screen flickers to life. It shows, in astoundingly photo-realistic detail, a flophouse reading by a young Jack Kerouac.

Jack scats and jumbles words over a young and worried-looking girl dabbling on the piano. Towards the end of his captivating performance, he begins to yell his words louder and louder, opens a beer bottle with his teeth, cuts his lips open, begins laughing hysterically, abruptly runs off with a young gay prostitute towards the men's room.

3.
On a wheat-sided rural highway, blissful and speeding. My mobile phone rings, and I slow down slightly while fiddling with the fliptop to answer. Katya is on the other end of the connection and begins stuttering through a cordial greeting, before requesting that I "simply check my email" and hanging up. Email reads: "it's got to happen - I'm moving to New York."