I'm sitting in the San Jose airport listening to Mozart's piano concerto #23 in A and I might bust out crying. Or else I'll lift off on angelic wings.
My ears almost exploded during the landing because I'm still so congested. And I left my belt after effing security so my pants will probably fall down all week.
I'm heading to Esalen. After being sick all week, I'm well enough even if my pants fall down around my ankles. I have a plan. I brought all my bandanas for nose blowing. I'll tie them together and make a pirate-y belt. Johnny Depp would approve.
So dear ones. I'll be out of range of computer and phone for a week. I'll be on the edge of the BIG ocean off Highway One. One slightly ominous email from Esalen...uh, there are delays driving to Big Sur because a parts of Highway One fell into the ocean. That's really what the email said. "...fell into the ocean".
I brought three books. Jeanette Winterson's The World and Other Places, Bury Your Dead by Louise Penny (very Quebecois) and Going on Being by Mark Epstein. I figure I'd hit several tones, snooty murder, high-faloutin lesbian writing and a bit of Buddism/psychotherapy. And all my music. It's a miracle of technology that all the music I own is with me.
No, I didn't bring any poetry. I stand in front of my poetry section and I realize I'd have to fill a suitcase with books. Who is your favorite poet? What a stupid question.
I did my first interview for my book. Yikes. I recorded it. Now I have to transcribe it.