I am in Belgium visiting my friends Katrijn and Jef and Cornelia and Delphina, all humans, and their cats Billy and Molly. This is Billy. He is a sort of benevolent house spirit and gentle demigod. He lumbers around like a sleepy little elephant. I love him.

Anyway, I have a lot more to say . . . but it’ll have to wait until get back to the high tower in the fortified compound where I live. I wonder how Schöneberg has been getting along without its Count Dracula, who is me. I will resume my godforsaken occupation tonight at midnight.

Till then~

I walked down to the fountain again tonight . . . that’s where the nearest Deutsche Post box is. I mailed one postcard to Warsaw and another to New York City. I’ve mailed a lot of postcards to a lot of different places, but that’s the first one I’ve ever sent to Poland.

Since I am the self-declared Dracula of Schöneberg, I of course did this at 2:45 in the morning. It was 66 F / 19 C out, and there was a warm breeze and no one else was out on the street, so I kept walking. I almost felt like I had no choice. I strolled over to the pathway that leads to the huge cathedral by the U-bahn station and sat down by the pingpong table. A black cat was playing in some tall grass nearby and I meowed at her and she turned to look at me.

My dad called me just then because he knew I’d be awake. He was pretty bummed out about a few things I’ll maybe write about later . . . and so I walked into the little forested court where they play a sport that I honestly don’t even know, and I lay down on the cement with my legs at an angle and listened to him talk. He sounded like he needed some comfort so I tried to comfort him. He said, “I wish I were there right now. It sounds so nice.” I said, “Yeah . . . it’s a real all-you-can-eat buffet of niceness.”

Now I’m home writing some letters . . . I can hear birds in the trees outside my balcony. The sun rises in exactly one hour. It seems like every week that fuckin thing rises 15 minutes earlier than it did the week before. This is seriously threatening my lifestyle, but it sure as hell beats winter in Berlin, when the sun rises at 8 am. That is true misery. In contrast, this is a mildly annoying luxury.

Good-night~ ☆彡

I’ve watched probably thirty or so Clint Eastwood films in the last month, either ones he starred in or directed, and many of them both. Clint turns 94 next week, same day as Laura, and I reckon I was paying tribute to him in some way. Listen: I love the guy. He’s one of my favorite dudes.

Thing is, I’m running out of Easwtood movies! But I finally sat down and watched HONKYTONK MAN, which I’d never even heard of before. It’s not a hidden masterpiece or anything, but it’s funny and often beautiful and wholly sincere, as is pretty much everything he’s directed. For all its sweetness, it’s probably also the biggest bummer of them all . . . when it ended, I thought: “Clint!!!”

Anyway, as for me, I’m very careful about saying that thing to someone, lest I miscalculate it. It’s easy to do that. I think once a very long time ago now I dropped the L bomb when I wasn’t fully there on account of a guilt I had that the girl had said it first . . . she’d waited some time for me to say it back and I knew it was hurting her that I had not. I know she meant it and when I said it, I meant it too, so maybe that’s all that matters. I certainly didn’t lie about it. What good would that have done us? Many years later I wonder if it’s childish to even consider a distinction between the “types” of love anyway. But if I were to borrow someone else’s words to describe what exactly it is I felt, these are the ones I would use:

. . . The young woman smiled dreamily as she went on about the storm, and he looked at her in amazement and something akin to shame: she had experienced something beautiful, and he had failed to experience it with her. The two ways in which their memories reacted to the evening storm sharply delimit love and nonlove.

By the word “nonlove” I do not wish to imply that he took a cynical attitude to the young woman, that, as present-day parlance has it, he looked upon her as a sex object; on the contrary, he was quite fond of her, valued her character and intelligence, and was willing to come to her aid if she ever needed him. He was not the one who behaved shamefully towards her; it was his memory, for it was his memory that, unbeknown to him, had excluded her from the sphere of love.

I could love someone again. I’m fully capable of it now. Truthfully I don’t think I was for a long stretch of time. So at least I’ve got that going for me.

‘sacred and profane love’, giovanni baglione