It’s been crazy around here. I’m chasing highs I can’t possibly recreate. I’m seriously lacking in neurotransmitters. I am not, however, lacking in friends.

I’ve hung out with Nikola at Barboncino:

And gotten soaked in the rain with Jonathan in Bed-Stuy:

Watched the sun set over Bayonne with Joyce in Red Hook:

Watched Tyler’s band play with Travis at Our Wicked Lady in Bushwick:

I saw the Lemon Twigs at Elsewhere with Emily and Jon:

I sang karaoke with Samy at Planet Rose:

I hung out with Jon at Bar Basic in Park Slope:

And with Mikey at Nostrand Pub:

I talked to my friend Miki in Israel about an evening spent on my bedroom floor in 2020:

And last night I went out with Tyler to Chavela’s in Crown Heights:

Last night (August 24th) just happened the third anniversary of meeting Tyler at Barboncino.

I didn’t know it was the third anniversary until after we made plans to go out and see Mikey and Susie play at Bar Basic. So we toasted at Chavela’s.

I like to mark time. There’s something beautiful about longevity. There are a lot of things beautiful about Tyler. Even though I was totally beat from spending the night with Mikey up until 6 a.m. on Monday, I just felt good around Ty.

It’s gentle. He confided something in me on the train to Park Slope and rested his head on my shoulder. I love his tenderness. I love how he jumps turn styles so cooly. I love how easy things are with him. I love talking baseball. And listening to him tell stories. And hearing him crack up. And how we just get each other. And how the age difference (I’m 42 and he’s 25) never seems to factor in. I love Tyler about as much as I love Misha. That’s about as pure as love gets. I love him so much it’s plain stupid.

I wore my favorite dress. It’s a beige cotton/linen, floor-length shirt dress with gorgeous embroidery down the front. I got it at Anthropologie in 2019 for $300. It’s a ridiculous to pay that much for anything. But the dress is timeless. It’s my Oprah in Santa Barbara dress. Everyone complimented me on it. Even strangers at Crown Inn.

I don’t know what’s happening next. It has to include some money. And maybe some romance. I want someone to look at me the way the Israeli looks at me. And so much art. Poetry if possible.

Redemption, Miki’s comment, is real. My redemption brought good people into my life. And they’re good looking. And smart. And funny. If I am the company I keep, well, then so am I.

I’m exhausted. I have zero energy to talk to anyone. I’m Goldie Hawn in Overboard:

I need to rest. I need to eat clean and not drink anything but water. I need to not smoke. I need to stay home and sit in silence. I need to clean my room and do laundry.

I’m taking a break from social media. It feels like a gambling addiction with diminishing returns. I’m a little lab mouse who keeps pushing the lever for meth instead of cheese.

I need a week in San Carlos, on the beach, with the sound of waves lapping the shore and the faint smell of diesel.

I need a book to read that is as engrossing as Meet Me In The Bathroom.

I need to start converting more strangers into friends and lovers.

I need the weather to cool down.

I need to read this book I found on the street down on Fulton about Antonio Machado, Spanish poet (1875-1939). Anything to unlock the muse. Pat, the psychic, says I have one. She reminds him of Isadora Duncan:

I won’t go down with the ship. And I won’t put my hands up and surrender. There will be no white flag above my door.

I’m in love and always will be.