June starts not with a bang, but a whimper in the haze of a Santa Monica marine layer. "We'll surf tomorrow," I said in bed, "I promise." It's a slow start to a summer month, but that isn't to say that everything is going to happen this month. We're going to Vancouver, Claire and I. It's a week for her work, and for me it's everything but. A week free to do this life in a way I vaguely remember. To do everything again, and I mean everything. To take pictures and write, but more importantly I think, to move forward.
I've been of the mind lately that writing things down will make them so. At the very least, having it written let's me see how things should be. It's a medium for thoughts, one much more concrete and set in stone than the buttery net in the sand that is my mind trying to hold onto good ideas, onto maps of the path. Maps are meant to be written down. They're spatial. For me, they need to be written out before my own eyes, the physical ones, not the mental because two eyes are better than one, and I'm a wanderer. I wander 'round, around, around, around 'round, around, ooo. So here it is, the map.
Things I'll do, why, I'll s (1) send out query letters, (2) fix the website, (3) do hotel research, (4) find a shirt printer. And of course do homework. And write and write and write a pilot.
