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In my P.O. box, I found a note from Marvin, who said that he’s tried to call me several times without success, and that if I wanted to get together, I should call him. Frankly, I’m shocked: I was sure he had no interest in me.

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The rabbi told the story of a 19-year-old poet destined for greatness who every winter would walk on a certain pond until one year the ice cracked and he drowned. “The ice didn’t know a great poet was walking on it,” the rabbi said. “You see, the ice never knows. . . nature is completely unaware of us.”

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There’s a very pretty girl – about 22, I guess – who lives here. Last night her mother said, “My daughter thinks you’re very handsome.” “Has she seen an optometrist lately?” was my lame reply, but when I spoke to Delia today as she was sunning herself in front of their townhouse in a red bikini, I felt excited. I mean, I’m gay, but I’m not that gay.

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Marshall might not have all the answers, but he’s intelligent and has experienced a lot, including several years in a monastery and Haight-Ashbury in the Summer of Love 19 years ago. There are times when I like having the company of my family.

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Yesterday, when I went to fill out the car insurance forms, the woman at the office asked my occupation. I gave it as “writer,” but she misinterpreted my New York accent and wrote down “rider.” I guess maybe because this is Davie, she thought I was with the rodeo. Do I actually look like a cowboy?

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I went back to Ronna’s, ostensibly for tea. Once settled in the kitchen, however, she gave me a hug and kiss, and I responded, and as we have so many times before, we ended up all over one another. I suggested we move from the kitchen, where we were vertical, to the bedroom, where we got horizontal.

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Finishing up at the warehouse, Josh and I took a drive out on State Road 84 to the Alligator Alley toll both, had lunch at Taco Viva, and picked up some tasteless alligator-bites-girl postcards for Josh to send the folks back home.

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The time reads 3:53AM and I can hear the sprinklers outside as I’m writing this, and I have a feeling I’m going to hate myself in a few hours when the sun rises.

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What really made me feel good today was an acceptance of the story I wrote just two weeks ago. Telescope, an influential and intelligent little magazine, wants “My Basic Problem” for their “male feminism” issue! And they sent me a lovely acceptance letter with a contract specifying a $6-per-page payment.

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You can find inspiration and motivation as a writer without inducing soul-crushing creative pressure.