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10:14 p.m. - October 12, 2003
Undone, there is nothing left to say but much that cannot
Mélange, pastiche, they're all foreign and do they adequately capture that flavor, that here-and-now verisimilitude that avoids cynicism and 1950s-era realism recast in the neon glow of today's impressions and readers? A whirlwind day, wholly enjoyable but for one encounter and its long afterglow, and it is between these matrices, like interstitial tissue, that I had a great day about or because of, nothing at all.

It was church this morning, lunch with A[deleted]a and something going on between the waiter and the me who whispered I’d take him home with me right now, surprised by my boldness and his hand on my body twice and that shy nervousness welling up pleasantly, neither fight-nor-flee adrenaline but merely curiosity, fun. And a Hansel & Gretel-like foray in that nightmarish mall with too many stores and people and bright lights, looking for Williams Sonoma because I have a gift certificate to use and laughing the while because it is good to be young and with a friend in someplace different.

Step up to the plate only if you’re willing to give in like measure to what you take and if not, move on. I am busy with the tendrils of my own life, my writing and my poetry, my hands and books, and if I tell this to myself often enough and with enough feigned sincerity I may believe it sufficient and wholesome, almost like mannequins performing the role of the deus ex machina on cue.

Make of it what I will, settle for what I can, live with what I can grasp, be childlike in wonder and amazement, and happy with what is to be. Yes, yes, that’s the ticket and in this life there are no refunds, merely passes to the next show.

 

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