The discipline of sitting down and writing...well, anything...never came easily to me.  Odd, since I was an academic who has actually been published.  It was suggested that I keep at this nonsense by a former colleague as a way of using the requirements of keeping a journal but with the added impetus of a public document.  That seemed sound, especially as at the time I was suffering from a profound depression after my wife's death.  I was even, by fits and starts and with an inexorable inevitability, killing myself with food, alcohol, and a general withdrawal from life.

Instead, I found this to be more a channel for my dissatisfaction with the state of the world and the numbing incompetence and dis-ingenuity of the political class, coupled with their entitled sense of moral superiority.  As I worked for a public university, it was merely what I saw every day from administrators and trustees, just expanded to the national stage.  This made my politics inconvenient for professional friends.  It also seemed absurd to continue to work and live where I did.  Thus, the change that I have described earlier.

I've become bored with Daytona Beach, though.  The water is often too cold to stay in for very long, or else the air is significantly colder than the water and...what am I saying?  I'm complaining because, even though i can surf almost every day, it's sometimes cold.  In January.  Pillock.

House sitting ends next month, though, and I want to head west for the spring.  I wanted to make it a slow drive, maybe across Route 66 with a stop to see some Cactus League baseball in Arizona.  I've saved enough from some odd carpentry jobs, so maybe I can splurge a little and spend three or four days watching baseball, eating hot dogs, and checking out the desert culture.  Maybe I'll even buy a serape and meditate like some Carlos Castaneda nutcase.  Yep, that's the new plan.

Ah, freedom.  I feel as if I can breath again.