I heard from Pietro Cheng yesterday. We kept in touch barely, birthdays mainly on social media. We worked together for the Algerians, and I received a text from him asking if I was who I was, and I responded positively, asking if he was still shilling for the Algerians. Apparently, he was in the process of leaving the Algerians behind in the dust and was inviting me to cocktails with him and assorted sordid Algerians. Alas, I’m not much of a drinker, and he expressed dismay at my non-committal ‘maybe’.

He also seemed to figure out that I might not be too keen on hanging out with Algerians. It’s been over six years, and I have no desire to see any of them again. Perhaps Pietro and I could meet up exclusively without those clumsy whirling dervishes zooming about with their tongues lapping up holes and whatnot.

It seems that Mike and his beloved will meet up this weekend. The beloved has gallstones and will fly 3000 miles for a day and a half with a shorty from the Bronx via Chicago to Jersey City. I hope it works out, and I will be free of this albatross that smells like large, cheap ass cigars, and a friendship could be established without the hang-ups that he brings to the bedroom. I suppose that will only happen if they do make a spark in person and not just facetime bukkake. Mike is beginning to realize that Bill and I were good for him, but that was in the past.

Bill and I discussed this last night. The possibility of sex was the impetus of many things that I had done for him. Now that the possibility is an impossibility, nothing is granted nor given to Mike besides an occasional phone call, which has the once silent Mike running at the mouth. He claims he talks Bill and me up, saying how good we are, how talented and creative we are. Let’s face it, we’re fucking special, and I guess Mike didn’t realize what he had until it was gone.

I do mention every now and then that I am fucking special and not like the nearly 10,000 followers. I don’t think any of them would step up for Mike’s benefit, but desperation can be a reason to do things, and could prove that I might be wrong.

I picked up Colm Toibin’s book about James Baldwin. It concerns his reading of James Baldwin and not a biography. It was good to begin the book and may have had an influence on the manner in which I am writing this this evening. Yesterday I bought a copy of Uncut with David Bowie on the cover and also picked up the books by Colm Toibin and Sarah Vowell. And of course, the first world problem of having too much to read was compounded by my opening the mailbox and finding the latest issue of MOJO Magazine waiting for me.

I wrote this instead of dictating, and I should make an effort to get back into that. The influence of Baldwin on Toibin and on me.

Brass in pocket
Living thing
Peter Chang