Sometimes I feel I've got something to write, but it would take a drinking habit to loosen the stopper and decant what's really here to tell.

I'll just start by saying that I locked myself out of my house tonight. As I stood outside the front gate--arms crossed, debating whether I should stand in the warmth of the garage or continue ringing the bell to no avail--I looked up at the sky and saw those "movie premier" lights that circle expectantly against the night clouds like saucers contemplating first contact. Not having a hearth to walk to, I had a sobering moment, to think how 365 days ago I was both meditating about nothing and, cohesively, ruminating about love in the time of pre- and post-30.

Now's a different story. I've got a year's worth of potential, because there's a year's worth of difference between filling my plate while waiting with an eager stomach and filling my plate with a lazy, hovering, finicky fork. The acute crises of other people, like I've been dealing with, these are involved experiences; they leave me no choice but to act for the benefit of the continuity of a friend's life. Strange that I haven't been intervening the same for myself.