Maybe time liquified.

I recently finished a collection of Murakami's short stories called After the Quake.  Published in 1995, each story references the tragedy of the Kobe earthquake-- what was horrible then remains horrible in the compounded complexity that another quake brought 16 years later.

I read the stories in a quick sitting and then re-read.  I sat alone and thought.  I finished some work and read again.  I came away with the following: alienation and solitude never grow old; they wax and wane until we accept them as natural conditions.

But maybe I'm saying that only because a box arrived for me in the middle of the afternoon.  Inside the box was every report card I received until I was 20.  News articles with my name in them.  Letters home inviting someone to an award ceremony.  Certificates.  A college entry essay and a booklet of poetry.  There were photos of friends doing things that shouldn't be photographed.  Photos of me with a drooping, rolled cigarette hanging on my lip.  Photos of my dad appearing sober or at least happy to see me.  All of this from another life that was long housed safely in a metal filing cabinet.  It would have been easier to control the girl described by all that paper if she'd been kept there too.  Now, I get the papers.

I finished a couple stories over the last couple weeks.  One is about family and the other about a movie star who lives next door.  Neither are experiential so don't worry.  I think now I'd like to work on something so all that paper finally gets to mean something.  Alternatively, I could put all that paper on the deck and watch the gales pick them up and take them away.

But I wouldn't do that.  That would be littering and my life really shouldn't be litter.

Ah, geez. Home is here and there.

Well.  Hello, friend.  It's been too long.  You might want to know just where I've been.  Or not.  Either way, I'm telling you.

Sand doesn't come softer.

I went home.  The other home.  The northern hemisphere home.  And although it was perfectly possible for me to sit for a minute to tap out a few snarky comments about the super abundance of inane television or fat people or super abundance of fat, inane people on television, I didn't.  I was busy.  Doing things that make me not fat or inane, I guess.  So there.

Mostly, we played on the beach.  That's South Mission, if you're wondering.  Home to the rickety old Giant Dipper and the highest per capita rate of dude bros anywhere in San Diego County.  I love home.  Almost as much as I love this home.

We cruised the boardwalk on cheapass cruisers purchased for the month we had.  In the U.S.A., it's cheaper just to buy a brand-spanking-new bicycle than to find a used one.  I know; I tried.  The only bike I found for cheaper than the smooth Chinese coaster required that I wait three weeks before I could actually take possession as the store wanted to check the police records.  Yeah, see, that wasn't going to work for me.  And renting a bike would have required a mortgage.  So.  Yes.  I purchased two bikes.  Fortunately, we gifted them to the needy bike-less when we left so they'll continue to prowl the sandy strip.

Not realizing the masochism this could later impose, I counted the number of rolled tacos I ate while in San Diego.  That would be 14.  I also had chilaquiles 5 times.  And I drank 6 glasses of horchata.  Remind me not to review this post in about a month when the cravings awaken from their satiated slumber.

God of Tacos?  We need you here.

Almost everyday, under an indecisive summer sun, we paddled out onto Mission Bay for a little stand-up paddle action.  Really works your core, my long-time bud sarcastically teased, and yes, indeed, it does.  A little.  Like, if you haven't really used your core in 15 years because you've been watching all of the gajillion Iron Sous Prep and Bus Chef shows from the comfort of a barco-lounger.  Or, I suppose, if you actually go into some killer waves.  Which I didn't.  Still.  It's cool and relaxing, civilized even.  Like taking an evening stroll on the water.  How you like them eggs, Jesus?

Cheap but not lame.

Home meant a time for lofty goal-setting.  Here's what we came up with: retire as soon as possible.  For reals.  Despite the obvious and tragic disadvantages of the rampant unemployment in the States right now, I got to say it was really nice spending time with jobless friends and jobless strangers who had the time and energy to meander through farmer's markets.  The farmers, for their part, seemed responsive to the conundrum and advised that everything was cheap.  Yes.  It was.

I love you, San Diego.  And all the people in it, or near it, or who traveled to be in it with us.  Friends and city alike are missed, and I'm not just saying that because we had like a foot of hail attack us today and most of it is still frozen in the cracks of our deck.