You know, we all need an audience when we write. Prior to this I suppose most have my entries have been aimed at an amalgam of people. But of course I think my entries are best when I am not aiming at those folks whom I know well and those folks I know only by blogging or other textual entities. This entry, however, is aimed squarely at rock star Dave and baton-mistress Marci, who are machete-ing their way through law school, having (as an attentive reader might know) left SLC just a few short weeks ago.

So...

Dear Dave and Marci,

It has been a quiet two weeks in Lake Salt since you've been gone. (Apologies for the terrible reference to Garrison Keilor.) I think we all miss your infectious personalities--the conversation--the fun--the thought. I think we all feel a void in our lives, that is only slightly filled by email. You and Marci are folks we could always count on to listen, and talk, and talk, and talk, and bring Nat Sherman's to parties. I think we all look forward to the time we can meet up again and just be silly fools--cavorting--dancing--loving life and loving the people that make it great.

Your friend,

So after a summer of willy-nilly gas guzzling by driving my car to the College, I'm back on the public transit commute. This morning was ideal--all connections worked without a hitch. This afternoon, however, the wonder that is UTA decided to make me miss every connection possible. Ah well. I still feel more environmentally sound. Good thing, too, since gasoline prices are the highest they have ever been.

I had a dream of my parents last night. Both were there, as I remember them when they were in their health, not long before they died, but not in the decline of health that eventually killed them. My father sat in a chair and said nothing, but looked quite anxious. My mother was saying something about her life--apologizing for some odd reason. My father tried to talk then, but all that came out was gibberish.

I've been trying to regain some order to life with all the nature I've been experiencing during this past week of my freedom from work. I think I easily fall into the trap of thinking that I have a handle on things that I don't really. One could read the previous state of my kitchen, for example, as a metaphor for my life. It didn't even have the semblance of order, with discarded wrappers in the cupboard, tomato splattered cupboard doors, and dust bunnies under the rack. I cleaned it all, you see, and felt better about the whole thing.