I got a new camera for Christmas, but we haven't bonded yet. At first it was the lack of memory, just the card it came with, four photos or something. Now it's the fact that it's sort-of too nice or something - my old camera was this beat-up little brick that I could just toss in a bag. The new one has a shiny screen covering half of it's back, and that thing just looks made for scratches.
I'm over it, though, the photo excuse. For a while, I was telling myself that the lack of photos was the impediment to blogging. But with 8,210 photos in my iPhoto, there should be plenty of material, right? Cabins up in the mountains, blankets at concerts, wolfhounds, dimly lit dinner plates, choice pieces of graffiti, half-knit socks, and what seems like a hundred lattes. It might be that many, it really might. Two years worth, at least.
At this point, if he were me writing this, my friend Mike might say, "This is not interesting." He wouldn't say it if I was talking, he only says This Is Not Interesting about his own (always interesting) stuff. But I kind-of like the way he'll stop, mid-sentence, and say that. It makes me want to do it too, and now sometimes I do. I don't know why. I guess I like the way we catch ourselves like that, the way we notice that we are drifting away from the person we are talking to, and try to come back to where we started. By picking up the phone, or a pen, or opening the computer for a new email, saying "Hi. I'm here. Where are you?" That's what interesting, that's what I'm always interested in. Where are you? I want to know.
So, hi. This is a cabin I slept in once. Tami was there, and Kae. When I was there, I felt like I knew what I was doing, even though it was always Kae who lit the fire. I don't think I told you at the time, that that was where I was, in a cold cabin that a friend warmed up for me, feeling like I knew what we were all doing there, and why. What does it mean to tell you now?