August

There was a blue moon on Saturday night, being the second full moon in July.

It was rather beautiful, especially when seen hanging over the rolling hills of Hampstead Heath. Cycling at night is a luxury of summer. The fumes of London have dissipated, while the cool night air is a haven from indoor stuffiness. With only one layer of clothing, the night temperature is ideal for feeling the air whizz over your body as you hum along on your own body's mechanics.

Astonishingly at dawn, there was fog on the Wanstead Flats. In July? There had been none in the Lea Valley, where perhaps the greater dampness kept the air just warm enough. But that just makes the Wanstead Flats special.

I went to Soho Pride yesterday evening and had a fabulous time. Met up with AJ, then bumped into R and D. There was a buzz on the streets that you don't find often, and it was just nice: not decadent, not over-exuberant, but the optimistic beginnings of jubilance. The music coming from the DJ at Archer/Rupert Street was sensational, and a Salvation-type crowd were making the most of it. Over on Soho Square there were stalls, a street bar and a bigger dance area, but was less impromptu. Also bumped into X, who was putting on for his own benefit his usual masquerade of narcissistic self-confidence. I wonder if it was a trait honed on the gay scene in the late Seventies/early Eighties. Looking back at what I saw of those times, it wouldn't be surprising. Physical/sexual narcissism was certainly a characteristic of that era.

M reads this, but what the hell.... We met up on Thursday and went to places that can't be described on a generic blog. One of his great pluses is the ability to read emotions and having the interest in reading them. Emotional communication using a wide vocabulary from the dictionary of human life is something that I always have found sadly lacking in other men. When it comes to emotions, most men are the equivalent of Sun Readers. Not that I have anything against Sun readers. In Emotional Dialect, the reader equivalents of Broadsheet newspapers often delude themselves into being fully apprised of the goings on in the world, when in fact they can be even more insular than the Sun reader. For there are those who can read, but are afraid to be fed information that they don't want to know. These are the men that each are an island.

I don't know where it will go. To a special friendship, hopefully. We'll play it by ear, live it for the moment, do it for each other's benefit and should it go or need to stop, so let it be.