Several recent incidences of sociability, a swing of the pendulum from a prior period of holing up. I always think fresh hiding will turn out to be terminal, the final retreat preceding social algor mortis, then suddenly I'm everywhere. Then I think hiding is no more, problem solved and vistas opened, until I find myself pacing the bunker again. I met Mig, and later Anne, who had met each other previously, albeit several thousand miles from here. I was already a little buzzed when Mig showed up at the Mallory Hotel bar, the so-called Driftwood Room. My two-drink headstart made me chatty and relaxed of limb, a pleasant vertebral looseness. I have little recollection of the details of our conversation. Who cares? The important thing is we had one, and I didn't blurt anything that made me berate myself on the way home. A social interaction occurred and I helped. I might have pontificated a little, but, you know, winningly. The drinks were overpriced but the place was pleasantly dark and cool, like a richly-appointed grotto for sleepy bears.

A week or so later I met Anne for coffee on Belmont, but it was too hot and crowded there so we walked over to the little park near my house and had a nice chat over the din of a group of shrieking mentally retarded children. Our conversation was easy and natural, but too brief. When do I ever think a conversation is too brief? Later we met her son and her old friend in Laurelhurst Park, and I watched children play without rolling my eyes even once. I hate watching children play. Would children sit still to watch me play? Walking home I thought, see there's nothing to it, you just arrange to meet a person, you meet them, you talk about this and that, you smile and ask questions, that's all there is to it, you fucking asshole.

In between Mig and Anne I went to a Business of Utopia event at the Aalto Lounge, where Diana George gave an interesting talk. Later I had a wonderful chat with Matthew Stadler, mostly about Steve Weiner's The Museum of Love and what's on the horizon for Clear Cut Press. Here I am, I thought, having an intelligent conversation with Matthew Stadler, this isn't so difficult. What's so intimidating about Matthew Stadler? Nothing. Anyone who can't have a simple conversation with someone as friendly as the exceptionally talented and ridiculously well-spoken novelist Matthew Stadler really needs to take a good look at himself, and pronto. I was personable and reasonably coherent. I gestured smoothly instead of giving my normal impression of an intermittently electrified marionette. I think I carried over the confidence gained from that conversation into the Anne conversation, while the Mig conversation was buoyed by numerous cosmopolitans, soothing darkness, and a barstool that swiveled.