Just back from Neo Mejico

Been gone for a minute. Kickin' it out on the vast nothingness that is Northeastern New Mexico for the past week. Peaceful beyond belief. Quietness is always kept there, and every star makes an evening appearance. It was me, my mother, grandmother, and my girlfriend: Ava on this trip. Me and the ladies of my life. Fortunately, and surprisingly, no one got hurt. We drank white wine at 5:30 every evening, as my grandmother has an almost autistic need to have a glass or two at that time, every day, rain or shine. She likes her ruts, and this particular scheduled behavior is one that I could easily get used to.

We saw Dinosaur footprints, a cinder-cone volcano, a mansion in the middle of nowhere, NM, a piece of the Santa Fe Trail, Old Town in Albuquerque, and miles-miles-miles of highway. Ava slept like a baby while we drove. She's good travel company like that. I can't blame her though. When I'm tired, I hit the hay like I've been gassed. I pass out mid-sentence if that's when the sandman starts to do his thing. Bygones.

Ava and I made efforts at our creative pastimes. She is a fantastic artist, and did some fantastic sketches and colored chalk pieces. I tried to do the writing thing. I have been kicking a story around in my head for a year now, and am slowly edging it out of my brain and onto my laptop. A molasses-fast process, indeed. Sometimes, writing just happens. It starts kinda wobbly, but then picks up steam- straightens out- and then hits a rhythm all its own. That's the good kind. Then there's the forced variety. The kind of writing where you keep telling yourself "man, that's some good sh*t, you need to write that down or something." And that's the variety of writing that is so difficult because you feel like it is already written in your head. So, all you have to do is transfer it to solid form, right? Nope. Not so fast Mr. Write-a-lot. With me, the story in my brain is told SO MUCH better within the confines of my skull. Once it gets penned: it sounds trite, sketchy, totally bullsh*tted, and is so full of holes you could herd whales through the choppy plot errors. It requires much massaging to get the damn stories to make any decent sense. And then there's all this f*cking grammar and spelling to sweat. F*ck me. Being borderline retarded makes it difficult to write a cohesive story with intriguing plot movements and touchable characters. I can see why so many writers turn to Haikus to vent the blocks.

Anyhoo. New Mexico is better than apple pie. And I sleep like a baby in the clean air. If it weren't for the Amityville Horror supply of flies buzzing all over the place, all of the damn time, like some sort of famine-stricken third-world country… I'd call that state heaven. But as it is, I feel like Sally Struthers ought to be collecting change to feed me while I’m there, with flies all on my eyelids and sh*t.

Kidding. It really isn’t that bad. And seriously comparing any element of my extremely charmed and lucky life to that of those who are sincerely suffering would be both rude and proof that there is no god. I’d rather not be the poster-boy for either of those transgressions.

Moving on then.

Word to peaceful vacations. I hope yours are as pleasant as mine was.