Santa Cruz[in]

It's done. My year in Phoenix is over, and I have left the desert, and the ninetofive behind. I'm sitting in a coffee shop outside of Santa Cruz remembering what cold air feels like, and reexamining the taste of real coffee.

My friend here in Scott's Valley lives in a one room cabin surrounded by giants cloaked as redwoods. He tells me he's been reading a lot, mostly Steinbeck.

"I used to watch TV in Phoenix."

"Yeah? I don't really miss it up here" he says, combing his fingers through his beard. I believe him.

On his way out the door to work, he tosses me a documentary entitled "The Corporation" and i spend the next 2 plus hours wondering when I became so passive about my world. When did I join others in my religion in forsaking love? Why do I not pray for God's justice to the suffering, instead of His judgement on the unenlightened? When will I finally collapse, exhausted, into this cloud of glory before me?

Santa Cruz with Joe has been good: cigars, oatmeal stouts, and some honest discussion of the faith of our fathers, and the fear of ourselves. I'm finding my troubles are the same in the mountains as they were in the desert. My temptations have no parole officer cautioning them against crossing state lines, and I am more the same than anything else.

My mind's eye is a high-tech fun house mirror, showing me visions of myself as lean, tan, and full of love to the undeserving. My bathroom mirror shows me pale and overweight, and full of lust to the point of unnerving.

Midwest Madness

The Setting:

I'm in Iowa for a week. It's been drizzling, but no snow (though it's cold enough). I'm surrounded by nieces, nephews, and noise-making toys, and the Christmas spirit is unavoidable once everyone gets sick.

The Cast:

I assume I'm not really related to most of these people, though my genes beg to differ. They all seem to be cut from the same piece of white, cotton cloth. I'm some sort of tie-dye burlap sack dipped in mud puddle.

The Plot:

So what will we do here in Iowa? Most likely read books from the 18th century, suffer from indecisiveitis, and each give our own running commentary on what children without motor skills would be saying...if only they could talk.

Summary:

I've seen more snot and regurgitated milk in the last 3 days than I have all year. And really, what would happen if we continued puking after every meal? (Ahem, Nicole Ritchie)

So, it's four days til Christmas. Unless of course you're in my family, in which case, Christmas is tomorrow because flights are all cheaper on the 25th. I'm sure in a few more years, we'll group all birthdays, holidays, and events around a lovely July weekend in southern Alabama.

Maybe I'll wrap up some leftover turkey for the flight attendant. Or maybe, I'll be a jerk, and keep it all to myself to have with my in-flight snack of stale peanuts and group water. Merry Christmas.

Really.