Tunnel vision
The huge towers of boxes in our apartment between which we scurry every day only adds to it.

Sorry for the paucity of entries of late. I’m in the middle of moving; Hunter’s in the middle of moving someplace else. Our house is a wreck. I work; I come home; I pack and drive boxes to my new place. I get home, look around the apartment, and it seems as if I have gotten rid of nothing.

Too much stuff.
In more than one sense, of course.

And no break till Christmas when I get two whole days or so to drive to Pittsburgh.

In the meantime I read bad/good sci-fi leant to me from my sister to pretend I’m not here.

Now, more than ever: Desire to hop a plane for Mexico and stay for weeks, maybe forever...
I went backpacking there a few years ago, and now Vicente Fox’s entire nation has become synonymous in my mind with the utmost indolence – where my biggest problems were achy backpack-shoulders and the fact that I smelled from days of not showering and didn't care. Eating fish tacos on the street, dancing like a drunken, stupid turista Americana on tour boats in the Sea of Cortez - and not ever, ever thinking even one day in advance. Sorry, Zapatistas. No disrespect to your fine nation intended.