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2007-07-28 2:00 AM

I'm tired. Exhausted, really.

But, I'm too awake to sleep.

I could've stayed with the rest of the crew at the warehouse. But, I opted to get a motel nearby instead. I didn't want to be tempted to stay up late or get loaded with everyone else. And, I felt like I really needed a place to get away and get some time alone.

I've been relishing my time alone more and more each day. I find myself prioritizing it. Before any solitude was isolating and self-destructive. Now, my solitude is intentional and meditative.

But, as soon as I got back to my hotel I found myself lonely, anxious, nervous, and craving something—anything. First I thought about sex. Who could I call for sex? Maybe I should get a hooker? Yeah right. I've never gotten a hooker before, so why the hell would I consider such a thing? I wouldn't even know how to. And, it's not like I have a problem getting sex. Then I started to crave food, even though I wasn't hungry. I was craving like a junkie, but who knows what the hell I was craving or why.

Clearly there was something else I was trying to satisfy.

I hung out in my room and edited some photos from today instead. Then, I drove to a nearby Denny's to get some onion rings and write in my diary. I imagine onion rings are like prostitutes for my stomach—indulgent, naughty, satisfying. I'll feel good at first, but will fall asleep guilt-ridden and maybe feeling a little dirty. [Now that I've eaten the onion rings I think I should've gotten a hooker instead. Sure they're more expensive, but nothing would make me feel as bad as those onion rings did.]

What emptiness am I longing to fill? Why was I feeling unsatisfied after an amazing day like this?

I woke up at the geriatric hour of 7 AM. I got some passport photos at Kinko's to apply for my Swedish permanent residence. I worked like crazy all day at the Art Center and then rushed off to Oakland to do the final prep work before tomorrow's Just Go Out With Me shoot.

Ramie, our choreographer, had driven up from Los Angeles and was waiting for me to get there. She had a bunch of Fred Astaire and Nicolas Brothers dance movies for me to watch as character and movement reference. After I got my brain broken by how amazing those old guys were, we immediately started training me how to dance with a cane—twirling it, swinging it under my arm, walking with it.

Then, we worked on me dancing across the stage. It didn't occur to me when I was dancing, but I helped build that stage—heavy lifting, power tools, and all. But, now that I think about it, it's kinda neat. Actually, it's fantastically rewarding. It feels like I really did something—I wrote a song and recorded it and built a stage to dance on so I can make a little movie about it all.

Whoa. It's exciting. I'm excited. And weirded out. Just a few months ago I felt so hopeless—as if I'd done nothing with my life. I guess hitting the bottom gave me a much-needed attitude adjustment—just what the doctor ordered to break me out of my extremely uninteresting "depressed phase."

After a few hours of dance prep, Jennifer and the other fancy Paul Mitchell stylists arrived. They looked like caricatures of stylists—dressed in all black with future-sexy makeup and super amazing asymmetrical hair dyed zillions of colors.

I stopped with the dancing and let them work on me. They needed to do a run through of my makeup to prepare for tomorrow's shoot. They did makeup on Ramie, too, since she'll probably be an extra during a few scenes.

It seemed like there was so much more work to do. But, for the first time in the two years we've been working on this little movie I felt like the end was attainable.