Angered at time zones and retreats

It's a sort of terrible irony that sometimes, when we need to talk to someone, it becomes impossible to do so.

Right now, I find myself in need of conversation. . .

of real conversation.

with a real person, not an electronic fiction designed to represent them.

Not even the lovliest or most lifelike of photographs.

Not even the electronic vibrations masquerading as a human voice. . .

To speak to another human being, to know that they not only comprehend the thread of your conversation, but also that they understand and empathize, that they catch the look in your eyes, the "otherness" and "sameness" communicated by stance, by that way you fold your hands. . .

so much is presence.

Okay, so this is ridiculous and emo. so shoot me. I may be glad of a second death.
(Understand that I am simply being flippant and silly and, while I am contemplating my future and T.S. Eliot, that is all I am contemplating. . .)

The point is, I need to talk to someone right now, and an electronic fiction, horrid though it be, would suffice. But Alas! those with whom I wish to speak are otherwise occupied. . .my dearest Sister is sleeping, since there's this whole "time-difference" thing between L.A. and Virginia (crazy, right?) and it seems that all my other close friends are at a church retreat.

And for those who are left, even Facebook has stopped working!

Curses.

I love spring in California. I love every season in California(though I sometimes wish winters were harsher and summers less so), and the past few weeks have been very grateful for the emancipating feeling of sunset and gentle breeze that so epitomizes spring in California. . . but sometimes it can be too emancipating.

The one thing I hate most about spring and summer in Cali is the whole spring-and-summer evening feeling, a sort of openess in the cool air.

But the openess seems too open. . .as if the expanse never ends, more like hell than heaven.

I walked outside, and predictably, it was one of those nights. The very stars and moon were cold, and for once, Orion seemed to shake his spear at me. . .