Sixty-eight years ago, Amelia Earhart disappeared and here I am sitting in our office (plants definitely dead and a mess everywhere--still), wondering how to eat up the next two hours. I could read (Eleanor Rigby by Douglass Coupland), or I could write. Or I could try to nap.... Go outside and lay in the grass.

Right now, I?m polluting the fourth floor of the union with music. I don?t think it matters much because the entire world seems to have disappeared somehow. Let?s assume it?s because it?s the fourth of july weekend.

I left work early last night because I?d somehow turned into a zombie. Perhaps that has something to do with going out until late, coming back to lay in bed for a bit, then cuddling and falling asleep for one hour just to wake up and catch a flight back to Detroit, then go to work directly from there. This lead to leaving work three hours early with the intention of coming back this morning to do those three hours then spend the rest of the day laying in the grass somewhere and watching the clouds race across the sky. Of course, when I went in to do those three hours, I noticed that they?d scheduled me for the afternoon.

So here I am, in the office to burn time. I have emails to go through, music to listen to, and a volume of thoughts to capture in word.

[In a few minutes, I?m going to write a love letter to Becki and tell her how much I miss her. Also, that I?m much cooler than ants so she should be here hanging out with me, instead of there counting them.]




I have so many more story ideas in my head right now and wish I had about twenty years to sit down and copy them perfectly onto the page. The problem that I?ve been coming into is that I feel like a literary Judas when I think about writing about real things, real events and real people?but all fictional, of course. You know?

Because when you think about things, events change and characters change. Someone is not always cast in the most positive light?or maybe it?s not that it?s negative, just real and honest... and that means capturing defaults and whatnot.

The thing that I?ve come to learn is that no one ever thinks anything is real. You can write about your deepest, darkest secret and rarely anyone connects that to you. Maybe they?re just being polite, maybe not. Up until lately, I never wrote about anything that ever happened to me because really? who wants to upset anyone? [There?s this quote?from someone?about how no one wants to be friends with a writer because suddenly your whole life is cataloged]

So yeah, Literary Judas?to be, or not to be?




Ann Arbor seems so? like Ann Arbor. Here, we are talking about the real city--not the college town. This means you see people that live here, and it's entirely populated by them. More pleasant than not, but calm--quiet like life sometimes should be.

It?s near empty and things get stranger every day. I walked here along Maynard and ran into a man teaching another Tai Chi in Michigauma Plaza.

It feels more like home. This is the town that I grew up in?the students are gone and it feels nice again, but it?s making me completely restless. Usually, I would embrace free hours like this. Just absolutely eat them up like you would not believe. I?d call Kim who lives right around the corner, so that we could get some food, or I?d call Becki so we could go get veggie subs from Jimmy John?s then go sit in the diag and talk about how pretty it is outside.

Or I?d call any number of people?but that number has dwindled exceptionally and now the home that used to feel like home doesn?t feel like so much that anymore. Maybe a rest stop?where you?re uncomfortably sleeping in the car (like South Carolina where we slept in the Camaro and the rest piled into the moving truck to sleep on any available surface).



So many more things to say, but that whole? private and honest thoughts placed out there for public consumption?hard to get over. Will take a few more days. Right?