* Amy is on vacation. She returns home on Friday, December 14; her almost-daily commentary will return shortly thereafter.

For those of you who have been under a rock for the past few days, I'm now officially on vacation.

There were three ways to get in and out of Tull, and in the grand scheme of twentieth-century road construction and enforced commuting, none of them were exactly optimal.

Speak, my brother, of angels half-remembered,
almost forgotten; of voices whose timbres
bounce analog memories from ears
to cells and back again to memory.

Speak, so that I may remember, even though
the sharpest of my recollections will be
limited by the silences between your words.

It is easy enough to memorialize through
words and possessions, but the tangibility
of a vanished existence relies on the
remembrance of pauses between word and word;
hesitations between word and glance.

It is the spaces between that transform
recollection into memory,

Subjectline courtesy David Gray. I've been singing it this afternoon, after a chance encounter with the song on the radio. It's probably one of my favorites from this year.

I've been toying with how I wanted to start this entry; this, my official switching from everyday life to the frantic and frenzy that comes for preparing for a classic Domesticat RoadTrip. I've been at a loss for how to begin.

…so, anyway, Wanda looked at him with murder in her eyes and said—nothing.

It's funnier if you knew her, truly.
But if you know me, you know a little about her.I rarely write of my father's family; not because of lack of interest, but because of lack of knowledge. My father has several siblings, most of whom are still living, but whom I have not seen in years. Moving seven hours away virtually guarantees that you lose touch with many of the family figures that you counted as regulars among your childhood holiday celebrations.