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December 22, 2005

California

I'm in California. Here to be precise. Its a bit rainy, about 45-50, and foggy in that "look at the Tahoe mountains in the distance and see the fog hanging on them" kind of ridiculously beautiful way.

I hate flying. First Memphis, then Minneapolis, then Sacramento. Leave at 4, arrive at 2:30 am EST. Thankfully that is over.

Its April's birthday today. Party at my sisters house.

Going home is always a surreal experience for me. Nowhere near a Junebug, but certainly on the other side there's a bit of the Walker Percey re-entry, and while I'm here everything feels slightly muted. Something like a malaise of the familiar.

My family, the good dirt-poor-in-their-youth post-Depression baby boomers that they are find themselves incapable of throwing anything away. Which means if I, like I did today, move a box in the garage I'll find a 15 year old plastic bb gun which I used to kill my first animal, a pigeon. I haven't seen that gun in what must be close to 10 years, and I remember the calm almost voyeuristic horror of watching the bird die.

My house is filled with things like that, in the strangest places. I fully admit to their quixotic nature, both at earlier stages in my life in which they played a role and now as referrents.

I'm a sentimental SOB, and I make no apologies.

I'm back on the 28th. April is staying here to road trip it back with Joanna, doing something of a retrace of my trip with Andy in 2002.