Man, I wish I could write and drive at the same time. Last weekend headed up to my old homeland on some unfamiliar highways, Rolling through the town of White City, Oregon — gun shop, churches, VA recovery center, two kids wearing weird mascot-type costumes dancing on the side of the road to entice drivers-by into struggling strip-mall businesses — and on up the Rogue River valley, eventually into the high national forest above Crater Lake. Got a bit dicy in the pass: snowfall, sunset, fuel level and elevation all hitting at about the same time combined with me not being 100% sure I was on the right road; made for an exciting hour or so while I wondered if I'd end up hitching my way back in conditions that reminded me of nothing more than the Donner Party.

But of course I made it with some skillful no-chains driving — light touch and steady speed is the key — and crossed into the relative civilization of the Central Oregon valley. Had a great time doing not a whole lot with some old friends there. Parlor games, kid wrangling, gumbo, scotch, lots of laughter, etc, all in a big warm house in a pretty (if slightly Stepford) "Golf Community."

I didn't even feel out of place hanging out with a bunch of common-law/married/engaged couples. Just grown ass people enjoying their time. It did hit me a little when I left though, after cruising over to the Euge and enjoying a lovely Valentines dinner with my Mom, that itchy urge to email all my old ladyfriends or fall down a bottle, or possibly both. Couldn't get to sleep in any case.

But hit the road early next day, maté and I-5 all the way to San Francisco where I lurk still, doing my best here in the Office and trying to make it all count. I got some tickets to jet to NYC for a quick visit not this weekend but next — see my sis and mom, visit with another fabulously engaged couple — and still need to figure out how March is going to work with deadlines and getting to Austin for SxSw.

I got a bunch of books, and am loving Chronic City and it's alternate universe Manhattan. Makes me ponder again the life of the mind. I wish I wrote more. I wish I could relax and have fun with greater ease in my day to day. I miss my bohemian ecstasies and revolutionary flair. I miss my makers hours and ending the day feeling good about what got done rather than worried about what didn't. It's all adding up to something, and something good it seems, but here in the middle time the spread feels thin.