October 23rd, 2005


I've been having a lot of difficulty knowing what to write here over the past few months. My handwritten journals are brimming with material that I intend to transfer to this medium. But something keeps stopping me from completing the task. Or, to be more precise, some things. The biggest hurdle is the knowledge that I seem to have A) readers who take everything I write literally; B) readers who take everything I write figuratively; and C) that I frequently play both of those roles myself. That is, I'd love to lash out at all the people who are too dense to comprehend my provocatively dispersed musings, but realize that doing so would leave me with more lacerations than I'm prepared to treat. Tonight I had the thought that, having failed to post an entry for over 48 hours, I could simply stop my Live Journal cold. Although I'm not likely to follow through on this thought, the mere fact that I had it in the first place is worth probing. My frustrations with this medium have been mounting. Maybe it's time to find a new approach to it.

From Dampness to Dessication

We left the California coast early, departing at dinner time yesterday instead of breakfast this morning. That meant that we had a whole day to recover from our exertions and reorient ourselves toward the tasks of the very busy week ahead of us. Kim and Skylar were very glad to have that time at home. Since I've been suffering from dryness-induced breathing problems since we walked in the door, however, I haven't had the chance to feel their sense of relief. All I can think is that I'm not getting enough air. It makes me irritable and irrational.

In an effort to stave off my final submission to the bone-dry reality principle of life in the Southwest, then, let me express my nostalgia for the trip we just took by referring you to Kim's numerous entries about it from today -- scroll down a bit to see some excellent pictures she shot using Bean's camera, including a number featuring gpratt's thoughtful handmade gifts -- and sharing this photo of our daughter sporting blissfully in the ocean:

I can almost taste the salt. Actually, I can taste salt, but it's coming from my suddenly desert-chapped lips and not from the kiss of the sea. Having seen the Pacific on two successive weekends has me feeling particularly homesick for a life in Kevin Starr's world. I might even give up my soul for the privilege. Maybe I already did.