But I had photographs.

And then it turned out they had photographs too. Shit. I figured I could keep the pace by piling the writing together with the photographs, a kind one-two sneak in through the back door approach that might have worked, except now it turned out they had photographs of their own. Pretty damned good photographs, although they didn't run them as often as I did, so I figured they were saving them up on the sly and just running the good ones, right? The fact they looked as good as they did was somewhat distressing, but what the hell, Lucy let me into Archipelago anyway, and the months stumbled by. As they will.

This, however, is not about Chuck and Steve. I've already got plenty in the works that will settle their hash come this weekend, let me tell you. This is about Beth (Atkins) (Stitches In Time) and this Huge Sucking Sounds business. (Do you get a hint of the incestuous here, gentle reader? Writers married to writers, journalers to journalers? Journalers writing about journalers?) This bald admission of preparing the house for my arrival as if I were some evil taloned maiden aunt, working through an entire afternoon muttering of Mieles and maids is much too much. You would understand immediately if you could see what I can see over the top of my monitor, the cat pushing his head against my arm in the middle of a dramatic soliloquy about dinner, the boxes, the books stacked beside the shelves on the floor, the TV set sitting on top of the cardboard packing box, the view through the balcony windows where you can't see the dirt because it's dark outside and the blinds are drawn. I'm embarrassed.

I understand the compulsion, of course. I do not, after all, come from outer space, but a small suburb north of Seattle and later of New York City where my parents owned a Miele dealership and would send me out into the street after school in moments of greed and boredom on a bicycle dressed in a Western Union suit, pedaling door to door, a pocket filled with counterfeit telegrams that warned the local matrons of their mother-in-law's eminent arrival. This delivered with a Miele vacuum cleaner advertisement and a phone number that promised immediate and immaculate 30 minute financing. Now, decades later, I am the ersatz mother-in-law who is arriving over the weekend for whom the house must be aired and scoured. Full circle, the snake eating its tail, the prankster meeting his own grey haired prankster mug in the mirror.

But that's not true either, now, is it? A Miele dealership. My friend Russ in Napa has a Miele dealership. One can get caught up in addle pated rambling. Relax. Stop. Shift gears.

I visited Los Angeles last weekend to meet Chuck and Beth and Steve because the planets were right and it was time to pack my cameras and meet these two (three) journalers. And because Chuck and Steve invited me. It never occurred to me that my arrival might kick off a furious cleaning binge, but I understand. These things happen. I would have done the same. The Atkin's residence is large, by the way, with nice comfortable rambling rooms that are built around a large patio and back yard. There's an igloo in the living room made out of hexagonal pieces of white cardboard that Zoe has decorated with her crayons. This is the proper use of a living room. Living.

I appreciate her not mentioning my self absorbed monologue about the whys and wherefores of still being single, it seems an odd subject to bring up with people you've just met, but they made my arrival comfortable with a nice deli dinner spread and good conversation. We talked well into the evening. It was good.