Tonight is my first night at the Quincy Address; it's a nice new $400/mo bedroom in the apt of Joyce. It's a Chinese apt -- to the extent it can be, so sparsely outfitted. I'm writing this on the laptop, sitting on my bed. After I unloaded the car and set up my room, Joyce and I went out to make duplicate keys at Home Depot and to eat. We ate at Bickford's, the breakfast place, because we couldn't decide. Somehow we talked about religion a little bit; and bad neighborhoods; and cats, which led to Becky because Becky is the mom or whatever of my cat. You know, the one who worries that he's misunderstood, or is going to get killed, or ought to eat just as much as his little heart desires. The one who worries he doesn't love her anymore. So I told Joyce about how I got my cat, which had been her question; and then I told her about Becky. She said, "ah, that's hard, of course; I understand." Lots of people have acted like they understand but I actually believe Joyce does. And I didn't even lay out the whole, grand story -- just a little charcoal sketch.

���� I may just believe that because it feels nice. I've been a little sad the last few days and hearing someone say "of course" about the sad-topic instantly converted it to a light sweetness. Oh, also, she said "if Becky ever comes to town and you want to take her home, that's okay." And then we laughed, because it sounded funny. At least that's why I was laughing. With Chinese people sometimes it's hard to tell.

���� I'm looking forward to riding my bike around the neighborhood.


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