Okay, fine, it’s a dream journal. This afternoon I’m reading Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet. I fall asleep (that should not be taken as an indication of my appreciation for the letters; I like them very much). I dream I’m going to a dinner at strangers’ house who have some connection to my family—in-laws’ cousins or something like that. My mom and a couple sisters are there. Zach de la Rocha of Rage Against the Machine comes. I tell my mom he’s famous! I want to tell him that I used to be tight with his good friend Rob from State Of The Nation and about the time we saw them with Quicksand at Roseland in the NYC and how I snuck myself and this guy I was working for into the VIP area where he was and how this idiot guy went up to talk to him thinking it was Rob, but Zach is hanging back in the room of the guy he knows. I’m being pissy with people and alienating myself because they run out of plates and I think they’re rude. My “bro” Sean is there, too. He was also on that trip to the NYC but what he’s doing at my family’s family dinner is beyond me. And here’s the thing, I have to get to him to tell him I’m sorry about not calling me back. But what’s my excuse?

And that’s an issue I’m facing now in real life. This past week I’ve gotten a call from Hector, two from Stella (the second one saying “you must be really busy”), and two from Sean who then followed-on with an email saying “is anybody out there?” He might be worried. The other two don’t know to be.

When I was a crackhead I avoided my friends, didn’t return calls or emails, and kept as much as possible in my cocoon. I assumed that would end with the habit, and it has to some extent, but especially lately, I’ve reverted to that somewhat and I’ve wondered why. I can think of two things:

1. The things I’m occupying myself with these days fill these days, and they’re the things that I care about most. Perhaps the things I’ve cared about the most ever. My friends, as much as I love them, are so removed from my crucial daily concerns, which never give me a moment’s rest.
2. I don’t have much to show for myself right now. I’ve been saying I’ve been working on a writing project or two for sometime now. That’s what I wanted to do when I went to South Carolina. I did a little, but I did a lot more coke. I have nothing new to say. It looks like I’m doing nothing to Stella. To Sean, I really don’t want to talk about my writing projects because he’s my writing buddy, and these are partly therapeutic and partly exploratory and partly still-undefined. If they were other kinds of writing projects, I’d love to talk shop with him about them, but these are too personal. Also with him, since he knows, is that desire to come back when my shit is demonstrably together. With Hector, he’ll want to make plans to get together in Vegas or somewhere and he being a coke buddy, I can’t do that. At some point I’ll say to him, I don’t do any of that anymore and I may or may not hang out with him, but for now, I don’t feel like crossing that bridge. I want to be really there. Sure. Ready to take him, that, and anything on.

On the other hand, being honest and slipping myself back into the world have been key components of my prescription, and I feel bad for not being responsive. And when I do finally call them–as I feel obligated to do…tomorrow—what can I say to them? That I’ve been busy? I have been but the with-what is my business, at least for now.