Domesti-rae

I had my first little dinner party in our new place tonight.  I had the guys that helped with the move over to say thanks for helping.  I liked having people in the apartment.  Val stopped by before hand and I just hugged her.  I miss her tons, even though she is just across town.  It's amazing: if you're not within blocks of each other in this city, you don't see people.  (Or you have to spend 3 hours cooking a meal to coax people over....)

I love hugs.  I don't think that I receive enough hugs anymore.  So if you're reading this (all 3 of you) and you see me, give me a hug.  I give good hugs back and it will pay out more than you give.  I promise.  

So it's official.  I've got a major case of writer's block.  I could fumble over a piece of beautiful language even if I wanted to.  Everything that I write seems to drip on the countertop like the moldy tomato juice that I had to scrub off the cabinet today.

But I find solace in the fact that other people are still writing magnificent turns of phrases, even when I can't.  For instance, I read this today: 

"We're still picking plenty of late-coming ripe tomatoes out of the garden, both yellow and red.  (I'm still convinced that cupping a hand beneath a plump, vine-ripened tomato in the summer is a particular pleasure that the church must have forgotten to forbid.)  But the golden rod is yellowing, and will soon announce in earnest that ready or not, fall is coming.  You can hear it out there in the night orchestras of insects: Sing like your life depends on it, it won't last forever."  (Linford Detweiler, OTR update letter)

Man, it's just an alluring paragraph.  It makes me want to wander the garden at my parent's house as the sun goes down, which is getting quicker and quicker every day.  There's a reason OTR has been my favorite band for 13 years...

Around this time of year, panic sets in: Those insect sounds that I do hear out my window will shortly be replaced with the snowy silence.  While the silence is beautiful, the favorite by far is the chorus of crickets and breezes meandering past the leaves.

I think I need to find a pen pal.