Yesterday Buddy and I went to the library (he waited in the car) and then Pioneer Park where they’ve fenced off the old locomotive I played on as a kid. The park’s about as downtown Mesa as anything, and Mesa’s about as Mexican and Mexico. I like that. There were some freaks of all ethnicity roaming around in there. That started the juices flowing. Buddy’s juices flowed, too, but he didn’t poop in the park because something in his little brain requires a fence to be in front of his face before he squats. So we crossed the street and I walked him around the apartment building across the street in search of suitable pooping grounds. The apartment building across the street was clearly mostly rented by a Hispanic population without a lot of money. Now let’s do some addition (I just wrote ‘addiction’ and had to erase the ‘c’): I like to speak Spanish with strangers; Mexicans, if they like any drug at all, like la coca; there’s something about the ghetto microcosm that’s magnetic to my personality; the last place I lived I cracked (no pun) into the scene at La De Arana, made wonderful friends, did so-so coke, had a wonderful time; it had been a long time since I’d done anything like that, exercised willfull abandon, or even been out of my mother’s house. The sum total had me imagining myself living in that apartment building, the Latino lessors marveling at my perro as I’ve heard them do, me hanging around, maybe at dusk, saying hello, sipping a beer, eventually offering one when a where-did-you-learn-Spanish conversation went a little long, being invited in for tacos, laughing at the ranchera song, broaching the subject, going on a little errand, and having a grand night with my new friends with whom I would from then on enjoy evenings after work and barbecues if I could get up for them or stomach them. There I went too far. The point is that I was tempted to break that scene, and not just for the bliss of drugs but for its own sake, to prove once again that I could do it as an outsider. I felt myself feel that and I felt my loneliness sharper than usual, perhaps ever, since landing at Sky Harbor. And then I felt vulnerable, perhaps more than I have since landing at Sky Harbor. And then I felt frightened. More so than ever. It’s been relatively easy to be good so far, but I haven’t really been out in the world, and I haven’t been at it long. I may not be that good at being good yet. I haven’t passed any qualifying exams. I did take hope, though, in thinking of the hard parts (those crusty mornings on no sleep), the good things going now, and the likelihood that I’ll only grow stronger (though the whole episode was a reminder to not get to glib about any post-failure success).

I’ve mentioned that the grandfolks are here. I can’t keep up with them. They got to watching some crappy TV last night and I had to say goodnight. Think I was in bed by nine o’, which of course got me to marvellin’ at the difference between eight days straight of rapid brain movement without rapid eye movement and having your grandparents stay awake three hours longer than you. And that got me to dreaming, like I am wont. Last night it was my giving a glass of wine to my teetotaling grandmother who gulped it in one and then aske me what it was. I told her it was a fruit punch with a grape juice base and apples and oranges pureed on in. Then we tried not to act drunk, and we kind of went crazy in the mall.