(2003's 'You got me. I'm listening.' will provide a good deal of insight into the literal meaning of this very figurative entry. For a day or so, I'll move it back to the front page of the site, since despite the large span of time between them, these two entries dovetail.)Fans of a radio show will set the clocks of their lives by the broadcasts they care about; they will turn up the volume and lean in close to the speaker, so as not to miss any of the words.

Me, I've listened to this radio show before.

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Text message sent to friends this afternoon:

All of HSV is at Wal-Mart. You'd think nobody here had ever heard of a tornado before! Hint: toilet paper WILL NOT SAVE YOU.

A few minutes later, a reply from Suzan:

No, but it will cover your ass!

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Truth is, I haven't let myself think about it much. Three hundred and eighty-five miles is nothing when compared to the scale of a planet, but it's a planet when compared to the scale of a life. While putting together my breakfast this morning I asked myself what the hell, exactly, I thought I was doing, planning on returning to the town of my birth. What do I hope to see? What do I hope to accomplish?

I'm not sure.

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There aren't many ways to get there from here. It's easy to underestimate the power of the Mississippi River until you realize that there are only four roads that cross Arkansas' eastern border. That's correct: four, for the entire state. Memphis holds two; the northern I-40 bridge and the southern I-55 bridge. Your next chance is a good bit farther south, in Helena, and your final opportunity lies at the southeastern corner of the state near Lake Chicot.

(We won't count the railroad-only bridge in Memphis, which technically makes five.)

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Hi. Is your phone number (678) 521-2061? Are you the non-English-speaker who called our house incessantly until midnight last night?

When I say incessantly, I mean it. There were spurts of time in which whoever owned this number would call us literally every fifteen seconds. Jeff answered the first time it rang, and hung up after not being able to make himself understood…

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I think it unlikely that I will post a public chronicle of my days spent in Arkansas, for reasons that are abundantly clear in the private entry posted directly before this one, but there is one story that I wanted to tell. It was not for what I did, but for what I chose not to do.The dead cross daily with the living in Tull; it is a place in which your memories and your past confront you even during the smallest of errands.

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Ever written in a book? Was it yours? Twice this month I've encountered books that show evidence of previous borrowers. While this goes contrary to my childhood canon of Thou Shalt Not Deface Public Library Books With Your Childish Mumblings So Put That Pen Away, Kid, in both cases I've been amused and a little delighted to find tangible examples that these books have known the touch of other hands. Read the rest »

So, I thought, now that I've done these other chores, I should consider tidying up the coffee table. An excellent idea, in theory; while short of a full cleaning, it would at least put the little piles back in reasonable order and make it appear that we are far tidier than, in fact, we actually are.

Except I did not expect to incur the wrath of the dervish Tenzing, who leapt upon the table with alacrity, snapping eyes, and swishing tail. What happened next can only be described from his point of view, which I immediately wrote down and sent to some friends:

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