May 18, 2001
Saint John, New Brunswick, Canada

6:41pm. What is worthy of this file folder in cyber-space I call my journal? My story is written in letters and acted in plays, impossible to reproduced the same way. What stories should I tell? What is the moral?

I saw stars last night... on the dance floor. A chic connected a right hook to my left eye.

Floating in an ocean of sweety flesh, painted funkadellic camoflage by swirling rainbow strobes, like a shark attack from below, it was over before I'd know.

Wading in, I surveyed the horizon of heads bopping like anchored buoys and hands waving high, splashing for attention. Carrie, my carnie gypsy--wanna-be magazine model--high school grad dance date, surfed a wave-length I could appreciate. Her hands, hips and feet flowed with the tempo. A beautiful woman with high esteem, she carries herself on a cloud of confediance, not fearing of what may be lurking.

Sycronised swimming is the key to generating electricity in this pool of energy. To make a connection, ya gotta find someone else in the same groove. Eyes lock when wavelengths merge.

Eyelids, like shutters on your temple, open a window to the soul, allowing travelers on near-by paths to view you intimately. If dark and cold within, light outside will warm your spirit. When within is bright and hot with passion, like a lighthouse beacon, standing bold on a solid foundation, you will aid others on their journey. Pressed close, nose-to-nose, peering at the glassy reflective surface, you will see yourself.

The intersection of paths is what makes each journey unique and special. As we float, bob, swim and surf through time and space, wavelengths flow in patterns and sets, but it is our choice how we react. When you meet the face, will you give it your all… or duck away; will you surf or get trashed. From a beach or balcony, you can watch the routine from afar to gain different views and perspectives, but the only way to realize your dream is to dive in.

There are some who crave attention, unsettled and disturbing as a smiling shark, that delight in destroying other’s fun, who taunt, tease, and strike to get a reaction, drawing their victim into a tragic drama. Noticeably open, carefree and unprotected, I was easy prey. Two drunk bitches acting like fools repeatedly pushed into my crotch, ass first, and each time I backed away. Out of the blue… "Whack!", …stars… left eye hurt like hell. Asking questions wasn’t an option, and retaliation would have been futile—like trying to put out a fire by pouring on gas, so I exited the scene stage left.

A bouncer said she has caused problems before and was told not to come back. He asked if I wanted her kicked out, but I said "no," preferring to approach her seeking understanding. She offered no reason, just stating, "You can’t be much of a man… crying about getting hit by a woman. Boo hoo… waaaa!" Then she discretely pushed the red amber of her cigarette into my knee. I walked away without another word, thinking, "The battle is within. We are each fighting ourself"