From 3-4 it's the worst. By 5 I just give up and drink tea in the blue dark. I am wide awake. In a way it's kinda neat at this hour. I don't feel cold, though I only have shorts on. It's quiet and the valley is brightening. My mind and mood seem opposite. I try to draw in the peace, to make it happen. I am sure herein lies part of the problem: make peace, but merely allow life. My new age friends say that's backwards. I say it's foolish, swimming upstream. As always. Maybe another sip of tea.

First champagne of the season. Spring weather came late this year, perhaps why this moment seems so wonderful: warm sun settled into long grasses on the back lawn looking down the valley. This wine is cold, cheap, fine. It works, it simply makes things better. Forces one to celebrate: the sun, property, the moment. And that my friend lies naked before me, sunning herself—well, that's just icing. Later this afternoon I can't stop smiling. The children find it contagious, their mother finds it hurtful. I set the cork aside, very much looking forward to stacking them up till October.

The Beautiful Tree sits midway down the front pasture. Its bright green leaves contrast the matte green oaks. Fiona and I walk down after dinner. For ten months you don't notice the slender bare sticks, then a burst of color. A large branch has fallen between making an easy plank to its upper reaches. I lay flat looking up at the darkening sky and her bare feet wrapped round the bark. Deer, or turkey, have been here, flattening the perimeter. Fiona, now sleepy on my shoulder says Good Night, Beautiful Tree as I carry her back up to the house.

A sadly beautiful girl tears into her coffee. Not even the handsome barista can make her feel good today. Frustration and failure: Why doesn't he love me? For the umpteenth time she goes over each motion of each date and phone call. Where was her error?—this time. Why doesn't he love me? Why don't the ones I love, love me back? Yet its the real question, he knows: Why can't I change him? And maybe now he has finally learned this most painful lesson: Be changed, then be hated, for being changed. Now they are both losers in love.

For weeks now I have been listening to 3 songs. Just 3 songs. Only 3 songs. I wake up early and turn them on. I shower, shave, drink tea, read, and write to these songs. I hum them at work. I repeat the few phrases I know while I drive in my radio-less truck. Once home I sit out front: beer, newspaper, these 3 songs. Later, at night, to get my rock on, I listen to these same 3 songs, only much louder. There are reasons why I am listening to these 3 songs, but right now I don't care.

The swamp cooler tried to shoot cool air across the room as Alice clutched the sheet close to herself. Outside, the heat of August persisted into October and the rattling of the cooler she no longer noticed. It's been six weeks since her arrival and she was beginning to feel comfortable. The valley cooled at night with ocean air winding its way up the delta. On those nights, she would push her bed up next to the open windows, lie still, and think cool thoughts. Tonight, though, the angry heat returned along with the demons she moved here to escape.

Child #3 on the way, my friend tells me. 3 kids! What am I: rapper, NBA player? Fuck, my life is over. There is no way any girl will date me now: how many kids to you have? 3 kids, 2 mothers, 0 relationships. He's angry, confused, lost. I cannot have any more children out there. I feel terrible for my daughters that their parents are divorced. Fuck, this is awful. Then I remember last Sun with my 3 year old niece and how I enjoyed her company more than any person I can think of in a long time.

I pedaled over to Tues Nite Disco. New Wave is in. I lean over to Cute Goth Girl and say This song was probably made before you were born. Got to see the sexy dancer again too. What fantastic simple pleasure I get from watching this girl with slim body and pony tail dance to faux New Order beats. I got drunk. I pedaled the crooked path home. Somehow I cut my foot and now blood has stained my sheets. Like insects, or flowers, the warm weather has brought the pretty girls out. Where will they be on a Wed?

Each Tues at 5:11 she walks by my outside table, I look up from my notebook, meet her eyes and smile. She then turns away, showing no reaction, keeps walking to her car. It's always the same, this game of ours. At first I thought here was someone more nervous than me in making contact. Then weeks later I noticed her wedding ring. I wonder if she feels guilty—that our glance is a sort of infidelity? Now I just continue in hopes that she knows that someone else out there besides her husband sees how pretty she really is.

First swim of the season. The day is warm sunshine and cool breeze. I am embarrassed at the belly I've grown over the long dreary winter and spring-- too many beers next to woodstove watching rain. I had to go buy a new suit to accommodate my extra waist. I am the first one in, but that doesn't prevent a fat kickboarding grandma from telling about the cones: slow, medium, fast. I put on my goggles, push off the wall, and try for the length under water. The first weeks always feel like clawing through mud: no glide, no breath.

As a child, Sun afternoons were full of pancake breakfasts and quiet, easy afternoons. As a teen, Sun evenings were full of anguish of unfinished homework. In college, Sun mornings were full of carried-over Saturday night date sex, then, if she was a real catch, a pot of French coffee and a silent hour with the New York Times. As a husband, Sunday was full of mowing and starting cold beer at noon. As a divorced father, Sunday is full of anxiety by my kids and me at the looming hand-off in some shopping center parking lot off the freeway.

The big mustard yellow Neil Young harvest moon rises above the ridge well past 8 o'clock tonight. I spy it through the oak trees, then go out back with the dawg. I watch it hanging there on a string from heaven in the navy blue sky. I am trying to feel it, seeking those moonbeams. With eyes closed and relaxed breathing, can I feel the moonshine? For how long I sat, I do not know, but when I finally came to and opened my eyes, that moon was now overhead, smiling good thoughts and feelings on me high above Frenchtown.

It flew into the house Tues night. It whirred like a hummingbird as it banged up against the paper Japanese lantern light. I tried to figure out what it was: a bird, a small bat—the sound was that loud. It finally came to rest on the wall: a moth. It was huge. White with black markings. I grabbed my daughter's bug collector cage and gathered it up. The next day I took it to the office for Show-n-Tell. I wasn't sure what to do next. I thought of mounting it. My decision was made for me when it died.

You didn't say goodnight. I've got my pajamas on. He opens the covers, she slides up close. She kisses simply, pressing her hips forward. Soon they generate heat. Her body scent is strong and he laughs at this European cliche come true. Quiet moaning accompanies her breathing. He helps her along with hands and hip. Moments later its she who helps him. He is up in the quiet dark making tea and she too has moved into the open room, to her own bed. He looks down at her: darks bangs, red lips, pale shoulders poking out from the covers.

Sun 1pm but the breakfast lines are long on Melrose. We sit outside. A most pretty princess of the Hebrew faith comes near. What strikes me first is her fit body: she has slightly muscled arms, legs and from her thin white skirt I am guessing -hoping—butt. Her bottle blonde hair doesn't bother me, rather turns me on when I make eye contact and see her brown eyes. When she is seated I see her with a Marlboro Light and a Star of David tattoo on the small of her back. This daughter of Abraham is all about sex.

The U-haul experience is a big drag. We've driven 11 miles and debate whether to put gas in the truck. $3 then a girl pulls up. I can already tell she is pretty through the windshield. She has the dark eyes, hair, skin that could come from any shore of the Mediterranean. Out of the car, her fit body brings a small fantasy to reality. I am excited and stare as she walks. What's exciting: here is an incredibly attractive, sexy girl and I could see myself with her. We make eye contact when she reaches back for her seatbelt.

The park is quiet on this cold day. The Hudson: wide and flowing easy. I see three girls coming down the very path I am going up. The middle one has the short light brown hair with skin to match that I have recently become so attracted to. Against the rules of NYC, I look up when we pass and make eye contact. Then, one of them says something, in French. O sweet Jesus, my first live French girl and she looks exactly like a French girl is supposed to look: not quite pretty, but oh so terribly fucking sexy.

I finally go jogging in the large park on the boundary of Williamsburg and Greenpointe. On an asphalt diamond, I see Hasidic 18 yr olds playing softball. At first I am amazed at their dress: all in black trousers, short-sleeved white dress shirts, yarmulkes, and curls. But then I see that most of these guys don't understand basic baseball at all. In true playground tradition, the worst players are in the outfield and routine pop flies provide 3 Stooges- like moments. Simple base running is lost and I laugh out loud at the frustration of those trying to play base coach.

A pub without beer. Honest to God, it happened to me. I'm placing my order, a pitcher of Strangeways finest, I'm not even paying attn to the guy as he starts to talk over me. All these, he waves his hand over the 30 or so taps, are out. What do you mean out? Fucking soccer fans. The compressor is out. Right now, all I've got are these: (I'm not kidding here folks) Coors Light, cider, a hefeweizen—I raise my hands in horror, walk out of the pub in disbelief. A pub without beer, who would have thunk it.

Black homeless Mary in the Lower Haight tells me today is her birthday. She wants to shake my hand. You sure you don't have 50 cents? Homeless are funny that way: they know their needs. If their drink or drug of choice costs $2.37, and they already have $2, they'll ask you for 37 cents. One guy I remember, in San Diego, Kenny, he'd always ask for a penny. Another, black guy with his drawers always hangin low: Gotta quarter? like a mantra. I shake Mary's hand, wish her happy birthday again, then spend 5 min looking for a sink.

San Francisco in the summertime. In the next two days 3 people quote Mark Twain to me. While its 108 in the valley, I'm glad I brought a sweater. In the middle of one meeting, out on the Aves, I look out and it's raining. I wish I was outside. And I am grateful no one has asked me a question during this moment. The next day I am south of the airport, on the water, feeling warm and cool at once, watching 747s land and though it's just a minute, before the others arrive, it really makes the day.

At work and at parties, guys find Steph friendly, accessible. She is: at once the smallest and biggest person in any group. This can be great at a new restaurant or a cocktail party across town, but in the end it prevents the romance and intimacy she craves. Love? You? But you're Steph: my buddy from the kitchen, we share a smoke and a shot of whiskey after closing each night. In these moments I imagine she forces a smile, looks to the greasy floor mats, wondering if her Asian skin still conceals her blushing. Out in California it did.

Steph has strong feelings about cooking, and her chef outfit. That guy with the orange shoes, on tv a lot, might be more known for his footwear, than his food. She wears the checks, but prefers a short-sleeved white button- up worn by dishwashers. Short sleeves in the kitchen is bad ass, she says. Yet she recently purchased a new pair of clogs. Red leather. Patten leather. Unfortunately these clogs are prone to slipping, even with those Swiss-cheese-like mats. She admits to falling flat on her back only to be saved by her long black hair pulled back in a bun.

Chinese dinner for one, please. It's just the two of us in this strip-mall restaurant. Are you here to escape the heat (loneliness) too? While you check the menu, I look at you. My God, you really are so very pretty. Do you know that? When was the last time someone told you that? Anyone: husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, your parents, anyone? I want to tell you so you'll know, not how I feel, but rather what just is. Especially today in your sundress and hair pulled up just so? Do you know you are pretty? Well, you so very are.

Chinese dinner for one, please. It's just the two of us in this strip-mall restaurant. Are you here to escape the heat (loneliness) too? While you check the menu, I look at you. My God, you really are so very pretty. Do you know that? When was the last time someone told you that? Anyone: husband, boyfriend, girlfriend, your parents, anyone? I want to tell you so you'll know, not how I feel, but rather what just is. Especially today in your sundress and hair pulled up just so? Do you know you are pretty? Well, you so very are.

What are these? What? These, these...gifts. Oh, nothing. I mean, I usually refuse them. He's coming on. What? He's coming on! Can't you see? She keeps looking down. I mean, you do know how guys work. He's coming on. Jesus, how can you not see this. Women are smarter than men, how can you not see this? You must be then...Oh shit, this is great. Fucking great. I never thought...not you, especially not you. I haven't done anything, she finally hisses back. No, you're right, I'm sure you haven't. You'll tell me first. Before. Are you thinking with your cunt?!

Dirty river water washes over her body as she lay back letting herself be carried downstream. He sat on the bank, legs positioned to cover up. He knew standing would provide a better vantage, but that would expose him. Though with her eyes closed and ears only listening to the whispers of the current, would she even notice? She walked along the greasy bank, straight back to their spot, occasionally side-slipping into the water. He didn't look up once, rather pretended to study the gold flakes at his feet. Finally he spied the red from the cold leaving her breasts.

Red sun rising above still snow-covered Sierras this morning when I went up to the well-- like a Biblical verse or Asian flag in real life. I stared right at the sun because I could: the deep crimson color dulling its brilliance. I am almost late for work, but walk over to the rocks above the meadow to look out and across for several long moments. Finally, I smell the smoke that has created this lens on the world. Back down to the house and shower, I look back to see if the red balloon follows me throughout the day.

Kickboarding grandma has painted toes to match her pink skirted bathing costume for this coming holiday weekend. She's barrel-chested, like her husband of 50 years, but prefers Seven and diet 7's to his Schlitz talls. To be sure she's been coming to the pool since it opened in '62, which she's been dying to tell me ever since I started sharing her lane and, as I swim by—gasp—splashing her with my poor stroke. She's got leathery skin, the old cow, but sadly not one of those swim caps with the flowers stuck on the side. I should apologize.

I had already left my shoes at the door, shed my bag, cap, and jacket, chosen a tea, but then accepted a beer, met your 3 cats, 2 birds, 1 fish, perused and commented on your book, video, and cd shelves, made small talk about Bush, the weather, your children-- how they just happened to be away this evening--their refrigerator art, and had finally settled among your pile of pillows with 3rd world fabric when I spied the 3 neatly stacked piles of magazines before me: Bitch, Bust, and Hip Mama. Wait, your profile said seeking men, didn't it?