Many Tentacles Pimping on the Keys

In the living room, Gareth works on code and listens to David Gray. In the computer room, I switch back and forth between working on code and working on this post, hoping that no one is noticing that I've been gradually notching up the volume on the techno every few minutes.

The walls just need to shake a little bit. A little bit of shake and the code shall flow forth.

Four pigs' worth of ribs

Friday afternoon.
Amy, to Jeff: "I think I'll do ribs tomorrow night, since Gareth is flying back in."
Saturday morning.
Amy, to Jeff: "Hey, Tim said he was free on Saturday. Want to give him a call?"


Note: this is being said after a rather late-ish night of geekfesting.

Enter three people into the living room, having left the kitchen after obtaining glasses of water.

Person B on sofa bed, groaning, with arm thrown over eyes: "What time is it?"

Me: "Eight-thirteen."

Person B: "You people are ill! Fuckers! Go back to bed!"

Geekfest. Once again.

It's that time of year, when friends start magically appearing from far corners of the country, gathering for a weekend in which we really don't have a lot of stuff actually planned.

I picked up Gareth tonight at the airport, fresh in from the other side of the planet. The Atlanta->Huntsville flight was early, as usual, and Gareth actually arrived at the Huntsville airport before I did. He was at the baggage claim counter, calmly speaking with an attendant."Where will you be staying while you're here?" she asked. Gareth turned to me, and I recited my address.

"Lost a bag, eh?"


"How many?"

"Only one I checked. I saw it in Atlanta, though, so I know it at least made it to the States." A bit of a relief, that; always nice to know what continent your luggage is on. "I did pack things like a razor and whatnot in my carryon, so it's not like I'll be desperate in the meantime."

Returning, albeit slowly

Ever have so much to say that you don't know where to start? I've been like that for the past couple of days; too much to say, too many people to say it to, and the end result is that I close down my email application and go do something else for a little while. The letters and thank-yous stay unwritten, but the lack of writing seems to do nothing but keep them in the forefront of my mind.

I've been moved, often to tears, by the words of others. Words, sometimes, from the most unexpected of places: Andrew's brother, out in North Carolina, whom I haven't seen in a few years. From my cousins. From those random people out in the world who have found this site.

One, though, brought home the reality of what I've been facing. Today's mail held a card, postmarked Chicago. I only know one person in Chicago, and the handwriting on the envelope matched his particular scrawl—Matthew.

A blessing from the air

I didn't expect to laugh today. I expected to cry. But maybe it was something in the weather that kept the tears away. Maybe something about the fact that my father died in the middle of one of the most enormous and long-lasting rainstorms in recent memory, but that today turned out to be one of those achingly clear and crisp early-spring days that Arkansas occasionally dishes up in March, that gave my heart a lift. But maybe, just maybe, it was something else entirely.