Self-Centered

Oh, Sewanee, I hardly knew ye. There's about a half-dozen fellow writers that I am missing quite acutely. I miss the opportunity to wear skirts and sleeveless tops without freezing (versus the conditioned chill of my 9 to 5 office). And the rocking chairs. I have one at home, but it's not when you're indoors. I miss rocking with a cold dark beer in hand, Jason Ockert the next chair over, and watching the quiet but fearless deer roam the graveyard at 3 in the afternoon.

The 12 hours each way was traveled with Jehanne Dubrow--I could not have asked for better company. On a practical note, there would have been a real danger of my falling asleep had I driven alone. Each time I was operating on less than four hours sleep. But more importantly, driving down we discovered things in common that made for good trading of stories; driving back up we exhausted ourselves of the post-conference notes, anxieties, and gossip that otherwise would have been inflicted on sympathetic but completely unoriented listeners at home. Thank goodness, on top of it all, we shared a taste for music and snacks: the recipe for a perfect road trip.

Easing away from the obscene indulgences of the Sewanee diet, I am eating only the most basic things: grapes, almonds, raspberries, bell peppers. Okay, sushi too--which apparently does not exist in Tennessee (maybe if catfish made for good sushi, there would have been sufficient common ground). And I am dreaming of the lavender-infused lemonade that they sell at ACKC, a little "cocoa coffee bar" on 14th Street.

There should be worldlier observations here, or at least something more tangibly related to, um, poetry. Maybe tomorrow.