Another Cowboy on the Lonesome Bike Trail

I made enough money serving beer to the PBR fans (that's Professional Bull Riders Association, and don't call it rodeo) to buy a new bike. I found a vintage Schwinn road bike on Craigslist that a guy named Andrew was selling for $200. It's an old school bike with front and rear fenders and a seat right out of the sixties, but what really sold me was the color. It has a yellow frame and green handle bar tape. I'm getting a couple of UO decals for the fenders.

Andrew was gone when I got there, so his roommate Terry showed it to me and tightened the brakes and filed down the brake pads. I have no doubt I paid too much for the bike. Whenever anyone is selling something old nowadays, they call it vintage. "It has a little surface rust," Terry said, "you can work that off with a brillo pad." I didn't mind. When you are paying for something with found money, I can't see wasting enormous energy in shopping or haggling much. I have a little surface rust of my own, a dent or two in my fenders. The bike and I are a perfect fit. On the way home I bought $10 worth of gas and that will last the entire week. I think sometimes it isn't what you pay for something that's so important, it's the value it has for you. I let some college students cheat me for about $75. I hope they take the money and buy groceries and a case of beer and throw a party.

I brought the bike home and took it out for a ride, pedaling up to the gym for a workout. I did a nice circuit of upper body and core work, feeling really good. I went to bed last night around 11:30 and slept till seven, played some poker this morning and took a two hour nap, a had a great lunch of fruit and crusty ciabatta rolls and green tea, had a shower, cleaned the tub and bathroom floor. I was going to do laundry but I left the damned soap at the laundromat last weekend. I am such an idiot. I miss my wife. She always knew where things were, and helped me remember things.

I miss her for many other reasons of course. Companionship, affection--she was a delight to my eyes and a balm to my soul. I met her yesterday for lunch, and my goodness, she was wearing these cute yellow-green shorts and her hair was down. Utterly lovely and unforgettable. I gave her some money for her car insurance. Yesterday was her birthday. I had been trying so hard not to think about her and trying to accept the fact we were not together that I completely forgot her birthday. Half the time these days I don't know the date as it is, but there wasn't an excuse in the world I could make. I brought her the money for the insurance, from my poker winnings, and she thanked me three times and again in a phone message this morning.

I wrote yesterday about sex, and I don't want to belabor that topic, but I have to say I never knew how incredible sex could be until I met Marie. We had the most remarkable, joyous, delicious, intense, passionate romantic life together. We went dancing. We made love sometimes three times in one day, and I could not look at her without wanting her. In the kitchen. In a vineyard. In front of the mirror. Slowly and tenderly, with whispered promises and endearments. Urgently and athletically, my hands on her glorious curves. When we hugged goodbye yesterday I didn't want to let her go. Two tentative kisses, a sad smile. "Call me whenever you like," I said, "I'm always happy to hear from you. Happy birthday."

It is what it is. I started this blog to tell stories and make discoveries, and that's the part of the story most deeply in mind today. I hope it doesn't offend you, because I always appreciate your visits.

And Now for Something Completely Different

On Thursday night I had dinner among the young hipsters, and Friday I served beer and bottled mojitos to the cowboys and their dates. I was the bartender at one of the beer tents at The Ross Coleman Invitational, a Bullriding Event held at the rodeo grounds in Molalla, a benefit for the Make-A-Wish Foundation, featuring some of the top cowboys in the country. You can't have a rodeo without a beer tent.

It was fun to be the bartender. I slipped easily into the role, and strove to be cordial, professional and efficient, friendly but businesslike. I kept my table wiped down, my cups stocked and my cash drawer straight, and I wore a smile and my wedding ring. The crowd was polite and manageable; they were there to have a good time and made no trouble and I enjoyed the work. Somehow it comes naturally to me. I like the pace and energy. People are generally courteous and appreciative of their bartenders--it's much different than answering phones in the call center or even waiting tables. I made $105 in tips, and only had to cut off one person, a woman named Gina who got too wobbly and started the loud talk people get after too many beers. I enjoyed working with Sean the Budweiser rep and Mark the alcohol compliance officer, good guys who enjoy their jobs, and my beer stand had a good view of the arena and the goings on. My brother Roger stopped by and we caught up on Mitchie's baseball season and Duck football. He and Debbie seem to be doing better and he has a fishing trip scheduled for next week to Alaska. Two guys in red and blue jumpsuits did acrobatic tricks on offroad motorcycles, flips and handstands on their seats, jumping off a ramp. The cowboys wore their crisp rodeo shirts and broad hats, and there were lots of pretty girls.

I'll probably get in trouble with my estranged wife Marie, my daughter Stephanie, and my friend Gretchen for saying this, but the blog has never shied away from honesty: I miss sex. I miss the sensations and the release. I miss the closeness and belonging. I miss holding someone, being admired, being desired. I miss the gentle talk and pleasing voice that follows it. I miss the anticipation and the thrill. I miss being connected, the intertwining, the bonding, the hopeful, tender, exhilarating nowness of it, holding someone, being held, giving and taking and desiring and feeling the energy and oneness, the thrill of conquest, the delight of giving every ounce of your energy and being to another person. I miss having my senses overloaded and all my cares melted away, the comfort and the solace of being in one perfect place with the one person you want to be with more than anyone in the world. I could probably find sex if I wanted. Some women have a thing for bartenders. Decidedly these are not the women you want to have sex with. I miss intimacy. I'm too old for anything mindless, immoral or casual. I want to belong to someone. I want someone to belong with me.

Of course, actions have consequences, and we didn't arrive at this place in the transformation journey by accident. Marie and I had a wonderful, intense, passionate, exhilarating romance, but we didn't get along. We'd fight in the most troublesome dramatic half-crazy ways, and dangerous terrible words and out of control emotions spilled out into the streets and parking lots and poisoned our bedroom and our kitchen. Our home became a haunted place, as if it were inhabited by demons or dark forces, and in a way it was: it was haunted by our pasts, and the fragile, hurting people inside us. I left her because I couldn't stand the fighting anymore. It was sad and dangerous and scary.

I fully realize it wouldn't do any good to take up with someone new, or rush back into her arms, even if I could. I had a friend named Tim who was in AA, a good guy, decent and funny and honest, well-adjusted after coming to grips with his troubles, another friend lost to another heavyweight crouch of selfishness and irritability, and he used to like to quote a saying from AA, "Insanity is repeating the same behaviors and expecting things to change." You can't have a healthy relationship with an unhealthy soul. But I am no worse or no better than anyone else: we all have some work to do. I miss sex. It's okay to miss it, and it's okay to say so. It's what you do with that realization that matters.

I'm working again tonight at the Rodeo, and I intend to have a good time and enjoy the people and pocket another $100. (I'm working as a volunteer for my sister and the charity, so I don't feel bad about the money--I stay on my feet and hustle to earn it. On the way home last night I stopped at The Trails End Saloon and had a Fat Tire Ale and listened to a set of blues, a four-piece band called KJ Jackson with a pretty good player on the mouth harp. I sat quietly and watched the crowd and drank a beer of my own, just enjoyed the music for a while. Another too-drunk woman stumbled and caught my shoulder for balance on the way from the dance floor to the bar and she stuck out her tongue suggestively. I recoiled inwardly and probably visibly and sent her on her way. Not what I was looking for. Not the solution to my problem, or hers. I am looking for something completely different, a journey of faith, hope and possibility. There's another AA saying I like, although I'm not an alcoholic and not in AA, "one day at a time." I'm looking forward to this day: it will no doubt be a good one.

Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

The Bye and Bye at 10th and Alberta serves "vegetarian pub food" and I had a pale ale and a bowl of brussel sprouts with brown rice and chunks of braised tofu in a hot sauce. The hot sauce would have been good on chicken or a nice juicy steak, but it wasn't bad on tofu. The restaurant featured a nice patio secluded behind a tall wood fence with lattice work and vines. It was a young hipster crowd. The bartenders had those full color tatoos that covered their arms. The girls wore capris or linen pants. I saw two young men greet each other with a kiss on the lips. Gretchen and I sat with Tamara, a real estate agent who likes to travel, and William, who buys and sells apartment buildings. Tamara talked about her trip to Laos. She met a young Buddhist monk in the city, a boy of 17 named Jit, and she traveled with him by boat up the Mekong River to his village in the remotest part of the country, where she spent several days working and eating and bathing with the native people. William had traveled also, backpacking through Europe, and Gretchen talked about the experience of adopting 3 children from the former Soviet Union. They asked me what I did for a living, you know, "what do you do?" the question I hate at parties, because it is such a conversational dead end. "I'll tell you," I said, "if you promise not to talk shop." Usually when I tell people I work for the garbage company they want to tell me their garbage horror stories, or wax rhapsodic about the drivers and how hard they work. I'd rather talk Pac-10 football and eat hummus and chips with Doug.

William had a thing at 8 so he excused myself, and I jumped to my feet and shook hands with everyone and left. I wanted to go home. It was extraordinaly nice of Gretchen to invite me, but I was way out of my element. I remember a line from Hannah and Her Sisters, "It was the worst night ever, the worst time since the Nuremberg Trials. We did everything but exchange gun shots." This was no where near that bad, but it wasn't anything I'd do again. Modern life has all these artificial ways to meet people and "network." I'd rather exchange gunshots than "network."

Before I went to the dinner I stopped at Colwood golf course and chipped and putted and pitched for a few minutes. I holed out another chip, with the pro watching from the clubhouse. It always cheers me up when I hole out a chip. It reminds me that while anything is not possible, a great deal still is.

Tomorrow night I serve beer and soda at The Ross Coleman Invitational. Everybody likes the bartender and the pizza delivery guy. I'd have to say that these were my two all-time favorite jobs. When some little old lady starts snarling at me about her trash can, or I get another memo about excessive bathroom breaks, they start to look pretty good. If I ever get out of debt, I'm going to downsize my employment and play more bad golf.

After brussel sprouts and brown rice I have an incredible craving for a nice ice cream bar with a thick dark chocolate coating on the outside. I think I'll walk over to Winco after the poker game, if I don't fall asleep in my new thinking chair. You know you're getting old, when thinking always gives way to sleep. Good night now.

Zimmerman Achieves Inner Conciousness

On Sunday former Oregon Duck Gary Zimmerman was inducted as the 247th member of The NFL Hall of Fame. He had to give a speech, and in it he quoted the Dalai Lama:

In 1980 I signed my letter of intent with the University of Oregon. I chose Oregon over other schools because it was the only college that would sign me as a middle linebacker. While dressing down for the first practice, I thought how strange it was that I was No. 75. After practice the coaches pulled me aside and explained that my future might be on the offensive line. The Dalai Lama once said that not getting what you want is sometimes a wonderful stroke of luck. The point I'm trying to make here is that nobody starts out wanting to play the offensive line position; it's just where we end up.

You have to love a man who reaches a wonderful milestone and recalls his life with such humor and perspective, a football player who quotes the Dalai Lama. Big hitter, the Lama.

Throughout our lives we are assigned a number. A cubicle. A uniform. A name badge. A position. And we strap on our helmet and block as well as we can. There's not a hall of fame for customer service reps or nurses or mothers or small business owners, but we go in every day and do what we do. "Sometimes not getting what you want is a wonderful stroke of luck."

I'm not the least bit ready to become a Buddhist. All that passive acceptance stuff would drive me nuts, but I have to agree with the Lama here. We want things to be easy and uncomplicated. We want our needs met and our path to glory to have no thorn bushes or twists and bends. Of course it doesn't work that way. It's the lessons, the stories and the obstacles that make the road interesting, that give the awards their meaning.

I feel incredibly blessed today, as light in heart as I have in a long time. Nothing has changed in the way of my circumstances, but I have the deep sense that I am in the right place and good things are ahead of me. I drove home with the top down under the warm August sun, and Duke Ellington's band was playing "Take the A Train" on KMHD, and I had the sense I already had my ticket. This weekend I could drive down to Eugene and watch the Ducks practice if I wanted, or this evening I could drive over to the dusty nondescript golf course I love and hack a few more balls into the wrong fairway, or go out for Chang's Mongolian. I love Chang's Mongolian. There's probably a restaurant like that in your neighborhood, where all the fresh healthy ingredients are laid out on a refrigerated table, you pick out what you want with some sesame oil and garlic and ginger and soy sauce, and an incredibly hardworking Mexican man stir fries it over a hot open griddle. Wonderful, simple food, maybe my favorite. I used to take both the kids there when they were growing up. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it.

I wish I had someone to go with me. It's weird, I consider myself a friendly person, but I don't have all that many friends. I'm not being self-pitying here, just reflective: what it is about my habits and choices that has led me to the place where there isn't anyone I could call and say, "hey, want to grab some Chang's?" There is Doug, who I love more deeply than a brother, but he is busy with his business and family. My own brothers are in California. I got to this place, I realize, because of the way I've chosen to live and divide my time, and many long years of squaring off in a heavyweight crouch of irritability or selfishness. I've squandered friendships, money and time, all my life. I didn't get what I want, not because of a stroke of luck, but because of the strokes of habit, living an independent, eccentric and largely unexamined life, much of the time. It isn't too late, certainly, but relationships matter. In the first pages of the Bible God observes, "It is not good for man to be alone." It's the fundamental truth of human experience.

Certainly there are times when it is very good to be alone. The practice of reflection, prayer, and recovery and growth demand that we spend some time that is quiet and personal. Socrates said, "the unexamined life is not worth living." That's absolutely true, but the over-examined life is paralyzing and a pain in the ass. We all have to take time to reflect, but then we ought to do something about it.

I will never be the life of the party or the center of a wide social circle. The same spirit that leads you to create a blog and aspire to write is necessarily solitary at its core. And I'm an eccentric guy. But I realize one of my goals in this transformation journey (and that's what we are all on, if we are honest) is to reach out and expand my world a little, to make a conscious effort to connect and deepen my connections to other people. Of course I have to choose wisely. There are two truths I am certain of: 1) we become what we think about and 2) we tend to become like the people we're around.

I used to have a really good friend I alienated over time with missteps and inconsiderate behavior, and several years ago we lost touch. Circumstances also played a part, marriages, divorces and jobs, and Parker's fatal flaw was a tendency to be judgemental. He had a deep need to be outraged at someone, a lot of held over anger against an alcoholic and distant father that spilled over into his conflicts with other people. I failed him and his anger at the people who had failed him before made the failure far worse. We came to some kind of crossroads and I never heard from him again. "Not getting what you want is sometimes a stroke of luck." Where is the luck in losing a friend? I suppose it lies in deepening your understanding of friendship, and being invited to discover all the changes you need to make to be more worthy of it.

Grab Life by the Handlebars

This morning I lost a 6500-chip pot to a sucker with a one-card out. That probably doesn't mean anything to you, but trust me, it's bad, agonizing and the worst kind of luck, the kind that can make you mutter all your golfing words and mope for a week, if you let it, but I'm proud to say I only moped for ten minutes. I did mutter all my golfing words, through gritted teeth. For the entire ten minutes.

I don't want to write much or very often about poker, because it's a subject that appeals to a terribly limited audience. The one worthwhile point in this small tale is that when you face a setback, particularly a frustrating or unexpected or unfair one, it's what you do next that matters most. After you finish moping and muttering your golfing words. That fact that idiots pursue draws like that is the reason I make extra money each month playing poker. Sometimes, however the idiots have to win. Or they wouldn't keep coming back to lose money.

But on this particular Sunday I decided I was in no frame of mind to revenge myself on the next idiot to come along. It was probably more likely, given my frustration and slightly shaken confidence, that if I kept playing it was more likely that I would play like one of them. It made me feel good that I had the good sense to step away from the computer. I read a couple of more chapters of Elmore Leonard and then called my friend Doug. The morning had been cloudy and unpromising but Doug said it had already burned off on the Westside. He had a few hours to spare before a family commitment so we decided to go on a bike ride. I threw the bike in the back seat of the convertible and headed over to Tualatin to for a ride and a visit.

On the way over I listened to part of the Mariner game and took the back road to Tualatin with the top down, stopped at Wankers Corner for a quart of chocolate milk and one of those little carrot cakes with the white icing wrapped in plastic wrap. I love those.

It was so great to see Doug and Gretchen. They are two cheerful, genuine people that it is just a pleasure to be around them. Doug has a beautiful touring bike he bought at REI, so I was a little embarassed to show up with my garage sale reject Murray ten speed with the chipped paint, but he greeted me with his customary goofy grin and adjusted my seat, which was far too low for me.

The bike ride itself was a disaster. I nearly ralphed, because chocolate milk and carrot cake are not the most advisible meal prior to strenuous activity, and by the time we reached Grahams Ferry and Bell Rd, my bike broke down. The derailler was bent and the wheel was rubbing against the frame. Doug tried gamely to repair it with a portable tool kit he had, but the wrenches were metric and too small to generate enough torque. After struggling with it for several minutes (and with admirable patience, and no golfing words, not even when I tried to help and just got in the way) he gave up and called Gretchen on his cell phone to come rescue me. Gretchen only has a Prius, so I chained the bike to a small tree off to the side of the road and hitched a ride back with her to their house, where I started up the Vista Cruiser and retrieved the bike. I got lost on the way back. Not completely lost, just turned around, and took the most winding circuitous path imaginable in retracing the route from Doug's house to Wilsonville Rd. and back. I wound up by a school west of Wilsonville, then a Toyota dealership, then the Target on the north end of town, a real bumblebee route. By the time I got back Doug had returned from the remainder of the bike ride and was preparing crackers and hummus, two tall glasses of water and some wine. We feasted and talked Pac-10 football.

A hour pleasantly passed, and we probably told 4 or 5 stories we've told ten times before, about games we'd watched and players we remembered, and the details didn't matter at all. The important thing was the company, and the crackers and hummus. It was just the best possible way to spend an afternoon, just being around these two people I enjoy so much.

It got to be 4:52 and Doug really had to hustle, because they were supposed to be in Aurora by five for a housewarming at her brother Gordon's new farmhouse. He scooted upstairs to take a shower and I said goodbye. "Call me soon," I said, though I knew he'd probably be far too busy. Visits are something you have to pry out of Doug. He's extraordinarily good company, but such a creature of habit that getting him out of his routine is a bit of a challenge. I on the other hand have no routine and have difficulty planning anything--it's always a phone call 20 minutes before the visit. It's a wonder we ever see each other, but I'm always glad when we do.

Wilsonville, where my son Roger lives and works, is just down the road, so I stopped by his work to visit a few minutes. I bought Jamba Juices and we talked about what was going on. He and Justine are seeing each other again. "Friends with benefits," he said with a wide smile. He is happy, enjoying his friends and his favorite video game, "Call to Duty 4." I talked with him and his buddies at the Game Crazy Store for a few minutes, and we made plans to see a movie tomorrow, "Hellboy", based on a comic book. He got free tickets through his work. It's not for a second a movie I would ordinarily see; the point of it is to do something with Roger. The movie will no doubt be full of violence and mayhem, but I'll enjoy his company and something from the snack bar. It does always amaze me the technical wizardry in movies now, the remarkably inventive and powerful things they can do with computers and animation and graphics.

Roger had work to do and enemies to slay (a big part of his job is playing and demonstrating and talking about games, and in that sense he is one of the lucky few in life that really loves his work.) so I said goodbye and headed over to Charbonneau to play a little golf. I haven't been out many times this summer, so it was incredibly absorbing and relaxing to putt and chip and hit a few balls. I didn't play a round; I wanted to see what kind of a swing I had after the long layoff. My short game is fine--I even drained a few long putts, and chipped beautifully, but oh my, my swing was all over the lot, shanks and tops and pulls galore. I set to it a while and worked patiently, and by the time the sun fell below the tree line I was swinging a lot more smoothly. There are few things as pleasant in participatory sports than a golf ball in flight when you have hit it solidly and in rhythm: it's a deeply satisfying thing.

What an afternoon it had been, a little mini-vacation. Tomorrow it's back to the cell block, as Amie calls it, but I feel thoroughly rejuvenated and refreshed. I stopped on the way home and had one of those six dollar burgers at Carl's Jr., utterly delicious even without bacon. I played another two dollar tournament but I wasn't hitting any flops. Maybe I'll take a couple of days off and come back fresh, see the movie with Roger tomorrow and play nine holes at Meadows, a dusty nine-hole track, eight dollars a round, just down the road from work, on Tuesday.

I feel good, and blessed. It was about as lovely a summer day as you could hope for, I saw some of my favorite people, and I am rested and well fed and in good health. Charbonneau is a retirement community and I noticed some of the old fellows doddering around in their bent-backed way chasing after their golf ball, and I was struck by the realization that I'm not much younger, and the distance from me to them is not much longer than my best 3 woood and a wedge. I holed out twice chipping today, so maybe the journey from here to there can have a few highlights.

Life is like a box of Cheez-Its

Today was a great day, a Saturday of good momentum. I got up early and cleaned the bathroom, read a while, took a nap, went out for breakfast, to the Pig N' Pancake at 122nd and Glisan. I always suffer from food envy when I go out to breakfast. I'll order something and then a plate goes by and I think, oh man, that looks good, I should have ordered that. For me the classic dilemma is hash browns or pancakes. I love 'em both, so it's always hard to choose. Today I slashed the Gordian breakfast knot in one decisive stroke: I ordered both of them, with scrambled eggs and bacon. Here's a guilty little secret the food police don't want you to know: bacon tastes good. If I knew I was going to die in a month, I would have bacon every day. With marionberry pie and ice cream for dessert.

I read the morning paper, sports first, and finished my breakfast. Ichiro had two hits, and the Packers and Brett Farve still haven't decided if he's going to play. VJ Singh leads Phil Mickelson by one stroke. The Ducks open spring practice on Monday. Barack Obama says John McCain represents the politics of the past and John McCain says Barack Obama lacks experience and leadership ability. They're both right, and we're doomed. Might as well have another piece of bacon.

After breakfast I did my laundry, washed and vacuumed the car, picked up my mail and had a workout. Glorious morning; it was just one and I had all the things on my mental checklist mentally checked, and I had Cheezits and lemonade for lunch.

I'm a big fan of garage sales. Moving in to a new place there were a few things I needed so on my way home I followed a couple of homemade signs to see what I might find. A couple of weeks ago I got a mattress pad, a flannel quilt and copies of The Iliad and The Odyssey for eight bucks. I stopped at three today, within a few blocks of each other, and picked up a print of Van Gogh's "The Irises" for a dollar, a leather man purse for my lap top for a dollar, and a sweet reading and thinking chair for twenty bucks. It's brown, and looks a little like the one my Grandma used to watch TV in. It doesn't recline but hey, twenty bucks. I had the top down so it fit perfectly in the back seat, although people driving past probably thought I looked like Uncle Jed driving to Beverly Hills. Thomas and Stephanie gave me an area rug they didn't use any more, and I vacuumed off the cat hair at the car wash, so now my sitting area is complete, except for a lamp and lamp table, which I will no doubt score at a garage sale in the near future. I love the look of happiness you get from people when you give them cash for their junk. You don't get that at WalMart.

It's 4:30 now and I've already had a full day. Tonight I'll go to see "Ironman" at the cheap theater, or I'll stay home and eat the rest of my Cheezits and read an Elmore Leonard novel. If you've never read Elmore Leonard, you should. He writes crime fiction so sharp and sparkling you wind up rooting for the crooks. He's incredibly good at pacing a story, letting it unfold, and he has a marvelous ear for dialogue. If you saw "Get Shorty" or "Out of Sight", those are both based on Elmore Leonard novels. The true measure of a writer is the eagerness he creates for what happens next, and Leonard and Stephen King are two of the best. Critics write them off as genre writers, but readers love their ability to create characters and tell a story. Why read if isn't interesting? But then again, I'm not a smart man. And that's all I have to say about that.

The Fear of Not Being Interesting

The fear of not being interesting is a death knell for a writer's hopes, a sound borne on a howling wind of doubt, chill and paralyzing. You clutch at your coat, half mad, and wonder why you started in the first place, why this rash half-baked quest has come to such a lonely moment, hoping for some other fool to come along and lead you to a hovel, a shelter from the storm.

I began the blog because I cared about words and ideas. I wanted to say something and enlarge my purpose, touching others in some way. I started it also because I had things to work out. Originally I used it to declare my love for one woman to the world wide web, and now the two of us have reached such a low ebb that all that exists between us is an occasional tentative phone message. I know I tried. I accept what has happened, and now I'll start with moving on.

Don't misunderstand. Moving on doesn't mean jumping headlong into a new romance. God, that would be awful. Moving on means reordering my life and redirecting my energy. It means writing about a wider range of things, and hoping on a broader range of hopes. It means taking care of myself, my chores, my finances and my job, taking time to reconnect to my family and friends, striving for balance. I can't just hole up and play poker. I can't hide in the gym, or in books, or Duck football. I have to remember why I'm here and what's important. I have to remind myself every day.

For all our passion and intensity, it was never a functional relationship. We couldn't get along. Fear and doubt constantly plunged us into irrationality and craziness, loud talk and misery.

Still, I miss her. Any man would. She is an enticing and memorable woman. But silence and distance are a poor substitute for intimacy. Marie doesn't return my phone calls, though I'm paying for the phone. I give up.

Tomorrow, I promise, I'll write about something different. I'll try to be fearless, and as interesting as I can.