life imitates art or vice versa

Well, here I am again, at home, buried under a pile of work that promises to be nothing short of spectacular. My hip-flexors are sore sore from so much hiking, but it was really fabulous. I. and I hiked into the canyon, and out by ourselves. Only just over the mile and a half marker, but it was something. She cried for a good part of the way back up, and it is hardly any wonder why other people would want to abandon us there, to seek some inner peace, but a promise is a promise and I held her hand and coaxed her all the way back up. I was really proud of her for the valiant effort, and it was nice to have some time, just me and my girl, lying out on the rocks hanging over the abyss. So I was accidentally sodomized by some stray rocks that slid beneath me on one of our many rest breaks on the ascent. Worse things have happened to me. And better, too, I suppose. I took more pictures than my hard drive will ever know what to do with. And then we drove home, after the second coldest night in (my) recorded history.

My three-season bag was not warm enough, and so I bit the bullet and bought myself a nice NorthFace down winter jacket, to sleep in (on sale, no less) and to allow me to continue my newfound snow habit, perhaps. I was still frozen, though I. and I curled into my trusty Thunderlite. I love that tent, I love that it pops up in less than a minute and that in the summer can be used without the fly to stare at the stars. Soon enough we will be sleeping under the stars, on our last trip to K.'s cabin, before she moves away. I will miss her. But we'll just have to have another reason to visit her in Baltimore. Sigh. More travel, whatever will the gods of wanderlust think up next.

And now I am back, but one of my favorite, favorite inner journeys that I had forgotten, or that I periodically forget, is that of performance. I like the stage, not because I like to be watched. I do, too, I suppose, but it isn't that. I love becoming, if only for a fleeting moment, someone else. Part of that is the pleasure of escaping into a text, providing an alternate reality, playing a role. Tonight I rehearsed for 2 hours. I was a torturer-teacher, a little desaparecida and a man who plays at the game of fear. I felt good, for a few hours, pleased with myself, before coming across more carelessly strewn anger. I guess that is a start.