Screw Editing. fleshy underbelly logs- second installment.

Today is brown. The air hangs heavily over the bay. I watch the power lines in the distance shimmy in and out of view. The water stretches nowhere and the ripples on the surface yield no sparkle.

It is a magnificent day. I am amazed at how many plants and grasses bloomed and expired over the past few dry days. Spring seems to have stood up, stretched and sighed itself away. Green is replaced with these rich brown tones. Abundantly barren. Breathe deep.

Another escape from the office. I have been hiking for about an hour, talking to myself, hashing out the latest animation. The occasional jogger passing me has cast a nervous eye at my jerking movements and mutters.

Mostly I am thinking of my stumbling infatuations. When I first formally studied creative writing, I made it a point to fall in love a half a dozen times a night, take notice of nuance and reaction. I'd sit in a bar like a stalker, memorizing how someone held their glass, lips tensed, trying to hide hating their drink and how this one drummed fake nails on the underside of a sticky Formica table.

Then, look at another, a woman with her face worn from living under florescent lights by day and the TV glow at night. She smiles at her date, casts her eyes downward, pretends to be trying something new as she orders another drink.

Now one-size-fits-all love seems too small. I am looking for the ruinously huge in the everyday. A coveter of muumuus.

Back at the office. Ed writes pining for 1992. There is little I miss then, 17 with pimples and a VW bus. Funny where our lives latch on, move in, establish home.