There's this combination of deep embarassment and wonder inside of me, just pawing through all of the crap in my old boxes. Right now our house is a menagerie of cardboard, spanning four different people for years at a time. The place has a warehouse quality to it that's more amusing than annoying. We're all packrats and it shows in the decor.

So far I've unearthed game manuals, birthday and graduation cards and even some notebooks and folders from high school. High school, wow...it's only been, what, four years or so and I barely remember it. It was punch-drunk public education, hundreds of quirky assignments scrawled with points and comments in thick marker colors. The teachers took pity on me for my abominable hand-writing. I took pity on the teachers for putting up with my peers.

Looking through all these papers just now I'm appauled, bemused and beside myself that I wrote all of this years ago. Like this introductory paragraph:

"During the later half of the Middle Ages, medical practices remained more superstitious and occultish than reason bound in their treatments. People believed that spirits brought upon famine and disease, people combated this with awkward methods, such as blood letting and idol worship. Within the confines of this improven and backwater "practice" though, intelligent means to change human health occured."

Granted that was seven years ago in-class, but good God. Fortunately, I've combated my own spirits with less awkward methods. Unfortunately, my penmanship is even worse now, the only upshot being that people mistake me for a med student.

The point of all this sorting is to get rid of these boxes so I can put yet more boxes in their place. While the living room doesn't benefit from this odd excursion, my bedroom eventually will. And with a cleared section of bedroom I can make way for... a guest; a special guest. She will be the first person to ever fly out just to visit me. I figure I've flown to enough people in my life that I can finally accomodate someone like Jen (and also have her be...accomodated by my family).

I haven't talked about Jen that much recently. We've known one another for about two months now. We met in Diaryland chat late one evening when the moon was low. I remember visualizing what sort of a smile she had as we bombarded one another with questions. Her laugh was infectious. I thought to myself how different she seemed from the usual chat fare: entertaining, loquacious and genuinely pleasant. I wanted to talk to her again and steal away the lark, just to leave the nightingale.

With a handful of exceptions we speak every day, usually for at least 3-4 hours but often more than that. It's the right combination of thoughtless and thoughtful that still makes it fun. She makes me feel young. We've grown very close, her and I, though she has pulled away recently.

At first I was hurt and disturbed, but then a thought came to me: if she and I could develop a romantic attachment, it's best to see if that same connection is there in the physical world. As I lay down these new boxes and burn incense for our house Matriarch as an ancestral offering, perhaps her spirit will be generous and grant her permission under Heaven (i.e. this roof). If so, Jen can visit and we can see if we do have those feelings. Even if nothing is there between us, we have a solid friendship.

All of that said, many of you are dear friends to me, while others have my sincere respect. Many of you I have not spoken with in some time, others not as often as you deserve. I've tried being there. I keep trying. I do not mean to neglect anyone, just that Time is not a fair sparring partner.

May you all be well.

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