the winds of an old rage

(singing) All my bags are packed, I'm ready to go.

Now you know that's a lie, I tend to pack the night before or mere hours before a trip, but the concept is sound.

I have made my plane and rental car reservations for my vacation trip back home to Lala Land.

It's starting to feel real. Amazingly so. I leave on the morning of the 8th and touch down around noon, PST. I will get to hang a bit with the daughter and her spousal unit, then make my proper meditations to the sand dragons before turning north for a drive through the almond groves of the high desert on my way to Paso Robles and Salinas (the former is the site of James Dean's car crash, the other the home town of John Steinbeck). I may squeeze in San Jose or Frisco, depending on who is around.

I will touch the sea as the sun slips beneath it. I will listen to the wind in the brush of the high desert. I will feel the hot dry winds of the Morongo Valley. I will taste heaven. I will eat at Roscoe's.

In unrelated news items: My nephew, Robert Dennis DeVault II, occasionally referred to as R2-D2 by myself, was married this morning. I have no other details and am a little wounded by the lack of advance warning, but I'll survive.

And Nightblooming's dog had puppies yesterday: I know, big whoop to you, but she loves that tiny monster.