Yesterday was one of the first warm days and, for around here, it was surprisingly dry. All pale yellow and still; brown, with last year's leaves crackling in the wind and crunching under foot. The hint of green only around dark creek banks.

Grace and I drove over to Hills and Dales Park; sun roof back, windows down and heads out side. The park adjoins the snootiest suburb of Dayton, Oakwood. You have to wonder where all this money comes from -- inheritance? It's money from a different era -- most of the spreads pre-date 1970 -- and we're not talking standard McMansions; these are palatial. French Chateaux and English Manors line curving brick lanes. Tennis Courts and poolhouses.

I used to have this idea I would one day live in a house like that. But now I think What it must be like to clean! or Property taxes must be outrageous! I'm happy enough with 1000 square feet and a fenced back yard.

Grace and I brought along Saint Bernard. Saint Bernard is a 24 year old guy who has chatted with me on-line for several months and who wanted to meet. I call him Saint Bernard because he's a huge guy -- 6'-6" tall, he says -- and his head is block-shaped, like a large canine. There's a chain of clothing stores at outlet malls called Big Dog; he could be their spokesperson.

We met last week for the first time and it went okay. He came off older than 24, and we had things to talk about. We planned on going to a movie yesterday, but instead he wanted to "hang out". I don't know what "hanging out" meant, but I did not want to fool around with him. He's just coming out and has made a big deal about sex meaning more than just fooling around. So when he got here, I said It's a sunny day, let's go on a walk!

He may be disappointed I didn't make a pass at him. He said he's decided to stop being shy and has met seven people in the last week. Seven. Wow. He likes em older -- doesn't that make me feel great! -- but most of his seven are around thirty years old. "Straight up!"

Hills and Dales Park is no mountain climb; its a benignly wooded area next to a golf course. We hadn't gone very far, and I noticed SB sweating. (I stopped short of typing 'panting' but look I just did anyway.) Walking did not suit him -- at 24 years old! He mentioned that he has lost 90 pounds in the last year (since he's accepted being gay) and is down to 220. 220 lbs! 90 lbs! 24 years old! Maybe I am hung up on statistics.

We had more fun hanging out on my front porch after the walk, talking and laughing. A lot of people -- and I don't think I'm one of them -- are drawn to the sounds of socializing; my tenant popped out with her kitten and promptly killed the mood. Eventually someone called (one of his seven, no doubt), and off SB went. We made plans to go to a movie later in the week.

I also had a date with Psychotherapist. An Ivy League grad, and very, very shy. I decided to get some free therapy in an oblique way "So, I have this friend..."

No. We discussed my obsession with self-help books, and I explained that it began in 1996-97, the period when I actually *was* in Therapy and thinking I could do a better job of it myself. Hmmmm.

You decide.

Psychotherapist detailed for me the phenomenon known as "transference." I already knew -- or thought I knew -- that this is where the patient hinders the healing process by focusing their emotions on their therapist. (It's bad because patients fall in love -- or think they fall in love -- with their therapists.)

But apparently it is so much more than that. In an "ideal"(?) Psychotherapy relationship, the Therapist observes how the Patient responds and relates to the Therapist, and thus can start investigating the true nature of a problem.

Think I'll stick with my self-help books.

Anyhow, I cut my date short. We had met, ironically, at a new bar in the warehouse district called Therapy. (ha ha!) Minimalist; everything painted in tones of deafening white. Ultraviolet light gave the feel of a moonscape or of a full lunar eclipse, and muted even raucous laughter. Clear drinks were served with glass swizzle sticks. We sat conversing on metal and molded plastic stools, then moved to low, orange-colored banquettes along the walls. The staff wore black, as did many of the clientele. I could imagine posing with my sister and her friends somewhere in L.A. (But we're in Dayton, and I give this place less than a year.)

The next morning, an e-mail (written at 3 a.m.) was waiting: Psychotherapist apologizing for being so boring.

Augh! Enough with the Transference!

Hills and Dales Park was a new spot for Grace, and she lunged and plunged around and off the path and into piles of things -- so obedient to her human companion, yanked about behind her. But in a moment, she brought herself up and poised, head still. Her nose quivered an inch above a tiny globe, shining in the silence. "What's that, Grace?" and her tale flagged once to acknowledge.

A golf ball: A Callaway 2.

"Good girl!" and we now have a souvenir of the day. A grain of sand floats in a jar. A measure of light holds on a twig. They create chords in a diminished key.