talked to an last night about home, and how we regret being so distant from it, how we're so far away, how we're free but aching so much for being so. maybe i'm doing what i love and losing the people i love in the process. i must remember to write my family letters more. letter writing is a lost art, it seems to be all about blogs and e-mails now. i'm going to bring it back. the postman's got to eat.

spring break and home with dad.

there's so much in my father's eyes that i want to write about. there's something barely dangling on of his teeth whenever he opens his mouth but doesn't say a word. i want to clutch with a fly net, hold it close, take it to a microphone and let it breathe, let it say a word. i want to hear the sounds my father is too proud to make.

if my father was the size of a paperclip. i would keep in my pocket and carry him back to berkeley. i could have him listen to some music, show him dusty amoeba records, let him leap through the cult dvds in the back section, run through david lynch, jump over the kids in the hall collection, convince him that bush isn't the answer, let him dive into a pool of naan and curry, let him run through the cracks in the sidewalks of telegraph, constantly looking at the sky and thinking that he was flying. as i'm carrying him he'll carry me and we'll get getting carried away.

i want to give him an ounce of my dreams, give him the fire to do what he wants with his life. but maybe it's already too late for that.