An apology, an update, and a small galaxy of strange possibilities.

So, I have good news and I have bad news. When asked which I prefer first, I always go with bad, so as to end on a high note. Sticking with that logic, the bad news: I’ve been a real deadbeat blogger lately. And while I’m truly sorry about that, I don’t expect it to improve anytime soon. There may be a workaround, if we can all stomach my talking about myself more than usual, but we’ll burn that bridge when we get to it. At the moment, we’re all going to stay here in blog limbo. At least we’re together.

By way of explanation, the good news: I’m moving! Across the whole damn country! Again! That’s what has me so preoccupied that I can’t do a lot of writing right at the moment. And I want to, but I haven’t been able to wrap my head around anything for more than a couple of paragraphs before I get utterly distracted by packing and arrangements and route planning and blah blah blah. My writery impulse is not dead, merely buried. So I apologize for my inability to multitask, and I assure you that I’m slowly stomping my way through some fairly coherent sentences about the newly resurrected X-files. But Mulder may be best friends with E.T. before I finish it. We’ll see.

So that’s what’s going on right now. The other thing, the less predictable upcoming future thing, is that moving 3500 miles with two dogs is stressful as fuck. And when it’s over, I’ll need some recovery time. I have no idea when we’ll get back to our regularly scheduled programming. Just bear with me. Please please please.

The maybe upside is that, like a lot of people who moved often as children, travel energizes the shit out of me. I might scribble like a madman while I’m on the road, go back to spewing some Kerouacian nonsense about life, the universe, and everything wonderful about seeing America’s back roads, the astonishing loneliness of an empty highway on a warm night, the sunrise over the desert while my beautiful husband sleeps in the passenger seat, how we’re all connected by the space and time that separate us, how travel replenishes the soul while fast food crushes my recently vegetarian intestines to a greasy pulp. It certainly makes a difference that the only book I kept out of the boxes to read along the way is the final David Foster Wallace novel. This might be brain overload, but surely something usable will come out of it. I put complete faith in the gods of both the highway and the footnote. They’ve never done me wrong.

And after we get where we’re going, there’s a wealth of possible material in my reacclimating to normal human society, my inevitable culture shock, and the weirdness of moving, temporarily, back to my hometown. This is why I say you might get sick of me talking about myself. Ironically, it’s probably going to get worse as I come out of a state of complete, crushing, mind-numbing isolation. Weird, that. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.

The bottom line is that right now we’re in blog purgatory, and I don’t know how long we’ll be here. I say we kick back, put on a Doors album (the only acceptably purgatorial music), roll the windows down, and enjoy the shit out of the ride. Who’s with me?