this will have to be quick and slightly forced, as i work until late late late, and when i come back i do not believe i will feel much like writing.

here.

she hasnt called. not that i really expected her to. i hoped, yes. and im debating, within myself, calling her. saying hey, listen, monday i am free, all day. monday can be yours, if you would like. please.

but i wont call.

the girl, an hour or so, said to me:

"you HAVE to come!"

because she was excited about her new digs in boston. i laughed and said to her:

"you know i wasn't going to come, but now that i have to, ok."

she really wants me to visit. which makes me smile. smile smile smile.

she even talked about calling up my mother and making sure it was ok with her.

which made me laugh.

neruda has two lines in one of his poems, every day you play, that keeps circling inside my head.

"How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running."

savage solitary soul. i have wanted that. to be looked upon as that.

but that's not me, is it?

solitary, mayhap. a loner i have been called. also bethroved and loyal.

savage. its hard to come across as savage when you openly (at least here and to select few) admit that the best moment of your day was putting a shoe on two year old, or that feeling her fingertips across your scalp almost make you lose all consciousness.

this is not to say that there arent parts of me that arent savage.

what a sentence.

that is: there are parts of me that are savage.

i have a lot of rage, less now than before, that sits in me. sometimes unhandleable where it sits, but yes.

the point i am trying to drive to, and failing at, is that i am not savage. not as how neruda probably was, or how he meant that.

not wild and untamed and fierce.

i am more... soft.

i am a big kitten.

which once was the bane of my existence, but which i am now accepting, because, hey, kittens are cute.

and turn into mean savage alley kittens. with CLAWS!