i woke up spooning K----. or, as tennessee williams would say: “she got the downstairs; i got the up.”

i can’t think of the west coast without thinking of you. 

why is it that every time we’ve met it’s been spontaneous? one of us picks up the phone and the other comes running. i don’t think we’ve ever gotten together more than an hour after the idea is suggested.

you might remember a long time ago when i wrote about seeing Sally Timms at the Horseshoe. maybe two years ago. i was alone. and a little drunk. over the course of her set, i fell in love.

the thing about J--- is that she’s beautiful but doesn’t know it. i think she thinks she is, but she’s not sure. she questions it. 

those are good questions. i’d answer them all but this would be too long so i’ll just pull out the most compelling one and see if i can answer sufficiently.

i’ve been busy reading Stephen Dixon’s new novel, I., when i should be finishing Scott Spencer’s Endless Love (it’s overdue at the library).

thursday morning - 1:50 a.m.

chinatown. 

usually i’m asking you to think about me and uncross your legs. tonight i’m writing to ask you to think about me and cross your fingers.

when i woke up this morning none of my clothes fit. your affections have left me swollen. my favorite shoes are two sizes too small. who am i now? who have i become? i’ll see, i suppose. (we’ll see?)