10:46

I bought a used copy of A Spy In The House of Love yesterday, and on the back page Joan Goldblatt of 259 and a half Monterey Road, South Pasadena didn’t send in her coupon for Madeleine and Zazie; and the very last part of the book she highlit said "The enemy of a love is never outside, it’s not a man or a woman, it’s what we lack in ourselves." Firecrackers are going off next door. Jo-Jo is throwing them off the roof. You know what I was thinking? If identical twins each had children at the exact same time day, month and year, they’d technically be twins wouldn’t they?

Anyway, where were we?

OH, I don’t know...something about the ride J. Dove and Eleta had back up from Panama, when they picked up Jo-Jo and Blanca. Jo-Jo whom I think of as Little Mongoose, with his sinews, ribs and chiseled smile, who still realizes the jigsaw of reasons found in everyone’s prison where expectations deny any chance of untying, unfolding or dissolving into the undershirts of unlearning and the overexposure of composing right before your eyes. What it’s taken to get this far into the mines you carve and if it applies to more than just me than that’s what I choose, but it may take me a while if you’re used to explanations.

I take the poisons and I takes the darts, I guess, and scratch out what I’ve seen them do when you toy with them in the dark within reach of a child who knows only of games that have no rules or the consequence of blame.

And so now, J. Dove is back, just like I’ve prayed. So, will we do more now than just smile and talk an lay?

You’ll never read this, J. Dove. Sure is quiet in here. But the tail of Sludge beats out his dream of whipping Bela’s ass. You wouldn’t believe the arch he just made--trampling over me now he is--Guess who’s sleeping in the microwave tonight? I’m kidding. No, I’m not. All the other dogs like to beat him up b/c he’s been neutered, but he seems to like bebop and this tape I have of Basque reggae. I spend hours trying to convince him he’s a cat and explaining to him that he’s doing it all wrong. He’s not buying it.

Oh, well. Off to bed. God knows what time it is. Twenty after two. Same time my school used to let out. A decade ago.

Now that the past is complete and tomorrow looks like a pomegranate, a banana and a mandarin orange--Oh, the fruits on this table would drive you wild! I got to shoot the boy today, finally, that cheered him up. He really is something, you know, and I love him dearly, but right he just needs himself. He knows it. All the power to him. What could I ever possibly know about him? But he can still tell me white people jokes with a smile.

Good luck and godspeed, I guess.

Keep in touch. Touch. Estrelica