wildcat

Last night's dinner was an unpretentious little red wine with pumpkin stew; pumpkin bread and various cheeses for appetizers.

I sat in the laundromat and waited for the clothes to finish drying, tried to write Joy a letter, failed, put the notebook away, read some of Neil Gaiman's Midnight Days collection, watched people fight with the coin machine (clearly, I'm afraid, marked Out of Order in - let's face it - flashing lights), then emptied my freshly laundered trousers & underwear into the bin for walking home.

I dressed at my leisure and then walked downtown to have lunch at a sushi restaurant. It was not bad; it was, I'd say, good but not perfect. The miso wasn't too salty. I wrote Joy a letter in my head while I chopstuck rice into my mouth and swallowed; after that I walked to the Blenz on Broughton to do the proper thing.

I drank an entire hot chocolate without spilling any on my fresh pants. I expect I'll be a real boy sometime next week, at this rate.

I wrote a proper letter to Joy without too much trouble, finally having a table top to write upon and (furthermore) no crush of people at all sides, seething, driving off the creative impulse. I wrote.

Then I rode a bus home and now I'm preparing to do a few things. The cleansing of a computer; the establishment of an opening paragraph for something. No more misery! Only bright things, people, lightning, comic books, brilliant angels, muses, Pagan blood rituals, et cetera.

Two different girls cancelled dinner dates with me, this week.