My journal has been dry these last weeks. I've been dry. It's hard to focus and when I read what I've written I get this little sing along rhythm that's either inside my head because I'm too close or it's there for everyone to read and everyone is sing along grimmacing. It's also not making a great deal of sense, maybe because I write in the evening. Tired in the evening. Another chapter in the journal on empty series. Still, something is coming. October. Fall. Winter. Odd time to think of beginnings when everything else is dying or digging in. In California, winter is when the days are shorter and warm as opposed to summer when they're longer and hot. Here on the ocean we stay with the warm. Hot is for LA and everything inland. There are two weeks in January when it gets below forty, but we don't mention it in the brochures. We do leave in the bit about freezing your ass off in a San Francisco summer because Mark Twain said it and everybody knows the story and will relate it to you on first meeting. And second meeting. More than once. Forever. Something to say after the third glass of wine.

See what I mean about not making sense? Something coming? I've been saying that for a year. Warm? Hot? Mark Twain? (Or was it Jack London? I bet on Twain.) What in the fuck does this mean? Additional medical expense? Or a vacation? I vote vacation. I need a vacation. I need a reality. I need a good breakfast. I need to stop this.