It's been brought to my attention by a few people that I haven't been singing, something I've been vaguely aware for some time, but every now and again something actually penetrates my thick skull and strikes me as important. Singing matters, in a way I don't think I've ever really understood: a connection to the rest of the world, as something from inside myself moves outside, then comes back in through my ears...conduits, blurring of boundaries, an opening of self. And I'd stopped singing in any context, even to myself or the loved one, let alone in public performance. So I'm remembering to sing more.

I went up to Gold Country last weekend to see my grandmother. It was especially nice since I found a way there which was both faster and more pleasant; but as I drove along, seeing what some friends call the "J. Random Dead Trooper Memorial Highway", not for the first time I hope that when I die people find some way to remember me a bit more fitting than a freeway overpass.

Although I doubt I'll care, so if it makes the survivors happy they should probably just go for it. Maybe my stretch of highway could be adopted by Boy Scouts, and generations of kids will pick up trash out of the breakdown lane and wonder who this person was--like me, with the Thaddeus Kosciuszko Bridge on the way to Skidmore, not bothering to look it up.

For the first time ever my bed sticks out from the wall and it's possible to get off in either direction, either towards the door or towards the closet. I often find that I will get off the bed on the door side, then walk around the bed to get to the closet, instead of just going directly to the closet. At the moment I find this to be an interesting metaphor for my life.

The weather here is usually so mild because we've got a line of fairly sudden hills shielding us from the coast. If you drive on I-280 you can see the ever-present cloud bank, a mass of cold fog that speeds in from the ocean, and crashes into the hills, rising above them like a wave breaking in slow motion, not quite able to flood the east side of the peninsula with chilly mist. Every now and again a breach in the hills gives the wave access to reach the highway, and the mists coming and going support a lush forest quite unlike the dry, brown grass that seems to cover most of California. I love to drive that highway: an enormous wave of clouds, waiting to crash down on me.

I've decided to read more and watch TV less. The new Harry Potter book has been laying about my house and I've started reading it, and found that my mood swings are not nearly so pronounced when I fill my spare time with books. I think I acquire an annoyance with television, since shows and movies are of fixed duration, but there's an unending stream of them, and I can get irritated with the rest of the world for interrupting me. With books, on the other hand, particularly the mammoth new one, I expect to put it down periodically to eat, sleep, and go to work. So far, so good.