Weather, balmy

funny how fast things can run away from you, all of the anecdotes you intended to chronicle, an evening out, now fading to obscurity, an insult now forgotten, a phone call missed and meant to be returned.

I sit here in the lamp light with the windows open to the passing cars and the occaisional sunday night pedestrian, and think and think, where does one begin to tell a tale... if one is not a weaver of such, if one does not naturally spin the silken threads, if one is not a spider. Then one will leave it to a walk home on a balmy Sunday night.

I leave P&M's at ten, we have spent the day together, I am a newly sparkling blond. The last vestiges of my last love have been bleached and leeched from my hair, I cannot wait to show my gay boyfriends.

We are at a garden party in Noe Valley and all of the gay boyfriends are there, and I adore them for doting on me and I dote right back, and they are concerned for my sex life and I am grateful, C and J have promised to escort me to a sex club, and I am willing to be escorted.

I am walking home, nay wading home through the night blooming jasmine, the night air is laden with blossoms, there are cherry trees and camillias, there are tender green shoots unfurling under the auspice of a quarter moon, and the stars are like so many diamonds in a Cartier necklace that should only grace my neck.

Friday night, m and I are at deluxe, I am crying, I am crying for my loneliness, we buy some more vodka and I teach him how to waltz.

saturday is spent sleeping off friday's vast ocean of a hang over.

Sunday afternoon, a mourning dove alights on the roof of J and B's house, we marvel at their good fortune. The pansies resemble butterflies to which we pose the question, which came first, the pansy or the butterfly (insert subtext here)

my nails are chipped, my bed is made, my goose is cooked. The traffic is a lullaby, the flowers are intoxicating, the ice is melting. The sun was on my face, the sun is on my face, I am missing R.