Fog and coffee

I came in from a dank, too-chilly morning. The kitchen was warm, and smelled like the fresh coffee gurgling in the pot. Momentarily sublime. And you might as well notice these things.

Kicking a cashew across the floor, and wondering if there are any more. Not quite as great.

Fleeting flashes of wondering what the heck Gabe's doing have zipped through my cerebrum at regular intervals this weekend. Then I remind myself that he's at his confirmation retreat, and I must go pick him up later this morning. He will say it was "ok." Then he'll tell me he slept through most of it. I do believe that to the largest extent I'm sending my final child through the program just so no one can accuse me of neglect. There will very possibly be some sort of cosmic benefit to the world that comes from Gabe having at least been introduced--however sleepily--to the concepts which form Presbyterianism, but that part doesn't have to be my problem.

It has to come up every so often. Jeff saying, "do you think you're addicted to that thing?" He means the computer. And I've kind of reached the "well, yes...but...whatever," state of response. Because here is the truth. I seek contact for brain stimulation. Before personal computers I checked the mailbox relentlessly. If I worked for SETI I would aim my little receiver at every point in the sky, and then go around and do it again just in case. I'm always looking for something to tune into to keep my brain from drifting back into that hazy and static-filled place two inches behind my frontal lobe where I get tweaked by shadowy specters demanding to know why I can't focus on the book I'm supposed to be writing. I don't want to have to wonder why I'm not accomplished enough for me. I don't even want to look at that. I hate that. It's a distraction and a relief to search for extra-terrestrials.