Somehow lately my journal’s been more trouble than good, insofar as there’s more people talking to each other about what I write about than to me. I have to chuckle at that, I’d like to believe they’re just to shy, or have nothing particularly constructive to say. The latter is sort of cancelled out by the reality of folks having something to say, just not constructive, and just not to me. My brain can’t really come up with a reasonable alternative code in which to write, as cryptography requires more technical than emotional comprehension. Someone needs to come up with the ROT13 of the heart.

From a friend’s (acquaintance?) journal, “I’m a below average swimmer, and water’s tried to kill me a good number of times in the past”.

The float planes on lake union remind me of flying over Shin Pond when I was young. It was impossible to not think about the water looking like land, and the plane was so rough, even your breathing would shake. I think of the photo of 4345M on my wall and miss her. This conjures up good memories of the L shaped camp, dad, mom and me.

54, 6, 67, 9, 61, … Meh.

This reminds me of L, like breathing. Water and breathing… It’s impossible to avoid what reminds me of L. I wish all of these memories didn’t fall into missing her. There’s a bar in Georgetown with my name on it right now.