Monday, September 27, 2004

Every once in a while, a post gets stuck in the queue, and nothing else gets through for a while. Had I been so inclined, I suppose I could have hunkered down and worked it out (What does a mathematician do when he get's constipated? he works it out with a pencil!), but this was do-or-die week to get the invitations out, and that took up all my spare cycles. But they're done, and should be going in the mail this afternoon, so back to the blog!

Unfortunately, there's still the matter of that stuck post. The problem, if you can call it that, is that I don't just want to tell you that I went camping with Billie, Theron, and Curtis last weekend, and that it was awesome. I want you to feel the buildup on the drive to the trailhead, the added tension that came from the sun's setting just as we were heading out, and the laughter over who brought too much, and who brought too little. I want to stretch out the words to form the strings of a hammock, and sharpen their points to poke more holes in the night sky than I've seen this side of the desert, with a dusting of the Milky Way girdling the world.

But since I can't throw my words at your feet to ball up like ankle-twisting scree, turn your walls to trees, or bring the Ozark wind into your cubicle, you'll just have to take me at my word when I tell you that it was a damn near perfect night, the kind of night that cuts into life like Michelangelo's chisels cut into granite, removing everything that isn't right.

If I could just find the words.

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