120104 I’m in this cafe because I’m executing time before going to the ritual gang-bang hootenany, and do you know what I really want? I really want that scrippy blond guy at that table over there -- no, that one, over there -- to be sketching a picture of me. I want him to show the ambivalently feminine way I hold my cigarette. I want him to catch glances every now and then when I’m looking away philosophically. I want to remain totally oblivious of his casually reverent gaze. I want the picture of my face to have all the right lines in it. Is that so much to ask? Omsatigo, you ugly old son of a bitch. You got anything to drink? Can any feeling be less tingly than the feeling you get when you realize you don’t have to pretend to be jaded anymore? They boyz, they boyz, they boyz are on they streets in they hoodiez. What did the NoWri teach me? Let’s see.... Taught me Roy is gay after all. Taught me sometimes I want to die. Taught me why I provisionally don’t. Taught me I’m kind of obsessed with sleaze. Taught me my wife is pretty awesome. What else? Taught me writing is kind of hard, in a way. And kind of real easy in a lot of other ways. I’d say that’s a worthy crop for a month of whiskers and liquor-studded coffee breath. And it’s not even over yet, not really. Oh yeah, taught me I KNOW more than I think I know about the onslaught of civilisation, and the brick wall. I guess it was kind of starry-eyed and uplifting, in a kind of a sleazoid, hairy-eyeballed, conspicuously frenzied way. Maybe next year’s will be a little bit about something other than whores and buttfucking. We’ll see. No country is yours except the one about which you obsess more than -- yeah, whatever. Novels are like back-handsprings except I have a little bit more optimism for the future of novels. A wee, little bit. Omsatigo, you dirty trick. Why’d you take so long? Ah, fuck, as they say, me. Hey, that’s my cue. 011005 -- there were a couple more entries in here, particularly one about a conversation with an anteater, that I liked, but they’re stuck on the non-functioning BusyBox right now. So, catch ya later, schmater......... Oh wait: I found one of them! Here it is: Your physical limitations that you’re so preoccupied with -- that’s the easy part! he intoned, finishing fiercely. How did you know I was preoccupied with those? I asked. A bar noise smothered my words. What’s that? How did you know I was preoccupied with those? I asked louder. Because you can see it in your game! he replied. Oh. Of course. He told me other things, too: I need to find a way to reset -- other than by getting caught. I need to develop some default moves, ways to keep flowing when I get into a situation I need to get out of. I’m intuitive, and I react intuitively, but sometimes my intuition needs a solid move to back it up in a sticky spot. I’m always trying so hard to get in there; I need to work on ways to get out of there, and keep flowing. And most ringingly of all: I need to release my long legs, long body -- I need to go ahead and be beautiful and tall, and let it all fly free. You always go down, he said, miming my predictable crouch. Not that that’s bad, but the way you’re designed -- you’re so long and tall, you could really take advantage of that reach. Oh yeah? Joolir said I need to release my hips. Yeah! Yeah! He said that? Yeah! Then he added, But you’re so close! You’re almost there. You’re inches away. Inches away. That’s a recurring theme in my life, I said. I took a small sip of beer. There was more talking, about other things. He was in between one place and another place. Everything was changing. As he talked, his face grew older, slightly more craggy. The dark green light of the room glanced off his gaunt cheek. His eyes never lost their mischief, though the shadows of his face grew sad. I was feeling a little woozy. I listened as well as I could, but some long, tall, beautiful, free-flying part of my butterfly soul just wanted to take him in my arms and kiss him, and silence all the words with real understanding.