I started the second draft of my novel today. My sister and I both enjoy writing, and she's working on her second manuscript, so we made a pact to prod one another. I keep her most recent prod in my email inbox. It stares at me accusingly every time I use the internet. (Gmail is my homepage. And my homeboy.) I put down three hundred words and a few more while I waited for my rice to finish. So, page one or so. A good start. My goal is to have the second draft (the draft I'm willing to show people) finished by my birthday, in December. Can do.

Sometimes you meet somebody and there are butterflies. Butterflies made of lightning. On meth.

The last time I met such a butterfly maker was before I left for Japan. The week before, actually. It was the weirdest thing. By objective standards is was an "eh" grade date, just fast food and walking and talking, but there were butterflies and I still don't understand why. He wasn't even legally an adult yet, which I'm going to count as not scuzzy on my part because I was only twenty-two and see above about fast food-walking-talking.

He wants to be a dentist. I don't know what my butterflies are thinking.

He's on my mind because we keep in touch, and we Skyped last week. There were butterflies again. They got me thinking about life and what's maybe next and what it will be like to not be single, to make job and life decisions while not being single, about being married, having kids. Probably not with him (because persistent butterflies aren't enough . . . right?), but with someone, someday. Maybe in the next few years. Someone will give me butterflies who doesn't want to be a dentist and who is maybe finished with school already.

I was telling my mom about this because yes, I tell my mom and my sister about my crushes, and she mentioned the recent Washington state gay marriage decision. She said the gay guys who were witnessing it were pictured with some adorable children. She seemed happy for them. I'm looking forward to sharing my excellent family.

Tomorrow is my level test for kendo. I'm anxious almost to the point of hyperventilation. When it comes to words I'm moderately talented and when it comes to sports I'm not talented at all. Everyone will be watching. If I perform like I did at the dry run this evening, I'll make a lot of mistakes.

But it's ok. It's a game. It's a sport. It's for fun and exercise and ok, also bragging rights because kendo is impressive. It's okay to make mistakes. (But that doesn't mean I like it.)

And if you were here, after telling you all this, I'd sniffle and rock back and forth like a slightly crazy person because I think it's time to just be with what I'm feeling, now that I've expressed it.

I feel like talking but there's no one here. I've been washing my dishes every night for the past couple of weeks because I read somewhere that the way to become a person who keeps a tidy apartment is to keep a tidy apartment. It's a steady clean clear area in my cluttered house.

I taught mentally challenged third graders about "I want" and "I want to" this morning. We played a white elephant type game and then go fish, and then a fill in the blanks thing plus a review about telling time. It went smoother than I expected. The special first graders were in a bad mood when I taught them last Tuesday, and then their abilities are different and I didn't put as much effort into that lesson, so what can I expect.

You're not here, so I'm talking to myself.

Last week I went to the Mormon chapel, did I mention that? I want to see if I can make it mine, somehow, instead of Mormonism being an accident of birth. Y'know. Like mental retardation, or a crooked finger. I want to demote it from worldview to heritage experience. If I completely stop engaging with it, it'll always be ingrained in me. That's probably unhealthy.

It's been a busy week. I want to go grocery shopping, but it's so cold, and I really enjoy laying in bed.

The elders are not lookers, but they're white and male and American and around my age so I feel myself drawn to them. I think I have to be careful about that. They're so like me, but also so very very not. I have to keep reminding myself—Matthew, these boys do not care about you. They're here to proselyte for a church in which you were burned for years. They may want what's best for you, but their idea of what that is is very different from yours. So be careful.

Anyway. If you were here tonight, I dunno. I might ask to cuddle and then fall asleep on you. I'm feeling young and vulnerable. I'm tired.

Three or four people have pinged me from a gay Mormon networking / dating site this past week, the sweeties. Makes me notice how I don't date. Sometimes we have long conversations about nothing or about drama or about the church and it feels familiar and comfortable and a little bit behind me. It's weird to think that guys might be over eighteen and still too young for me.

I was thinking about the toast I'll give at Scott's wedding next October. We've known each other forever. Things have stayed the same, things have changed. There are memories. With age relationships stop suffering from embarrassment a little maybe.

I guess it feels a little like Japan isn't real life. BYU felt that way too, and those years in between. I guess life hasn't felt real since I came out. I'm always waiting for what's next, always planning the end of this and the beginning of that and thinking, when this is over and that's begun, then I'll really be alive. Things will click. My whole soul will come flaring up inside me like a geyser of meaning that infuses everything and makes me think that at last what I'm doing matters.

What I want to say is, I can finally imagine settling down with a husband and raising children, and as that works its way into my thought process I think life will look more real. More lasting. More worthwhile.

**********

I did not visit the church.

After boxing this evening I ran into the Mormon missionaries. This was the third time since coming to Japan and the first of those three times when I wasn't running to catch a train. They were in my train station's bakery, which was where I wanted to buy dinner. (Curry rolls.)

Long story short: When they gave me a little map to the church I felt wanted by a decent looking American man within a couple of years of my age, which was strange and wonderful and then depressing. I miss tall, clean-cut white boys. Missionaries are even better because they come in pairs and without women. No offense, women. Unfortunately, they don't want me to come to their church because they like me; they want me to come because they believe a theology that I don't.

Gosh I felt sad after that. Not too sad—boxing endorphins—but sad. Probably I'll never stop being sad, at least a little, not about these particular men but about the Mormon life I didn't lead. Like the best storybooks, that Mormon life was so beautiful that it hurts that I can't believe it's true.

I'm pretty sure I'll visit the church sometime soon, maybe even this weekend. I'm such a sucker.


**********

There were cutie-patootie eight year olds at the boxing gym today. They asked me my name, and where I was from, and how old I was. One kept going "Pchiew!" and fake punching toward me. One kept showing off on the climbing rope, calling me over to make sure I was watching.