I really want to take a warm shower but am instead completely engaged in planning logistics for California; calculating numbers, looking at maps, registration, dates, sending emails, and planning how much money it would cost to drive. It will cost twice as much as flying at the current state of oil prices, and I'm sitting here cold and wondering where all the money is going to come from. Yet I know I'm still going to spend it. Letting go of security somewhat frightens me, yet there's something peculiar about going to California that feels like it's already been written. Life's big picture. I see it, or rather I will see it one day. I'm at an outdoor movie theater, in the middle of a desert, crooked metal posts peeking up next to cars with their lo-fi speaker popping and hissing the soundtrack throughout the lot. I have to find the means and ways to physically manifest this, I have to add more scenes. It's all so inspiring, it is meant to be, like a friend waiting with open arms.

Or maybe that's how everyone feels about California.

Sometimes when I'm riding my bike I realize I don't remember the last 4 blocks and somedays, the entire ride in general. Today I could have ridden all day effortlessly spinning. Last night I only remember bits of the ride home, it was so late and I was so tired. I remember feeling frozen as a block of ice after starting out, but by the end I was unzipping my jacket so that I could stay out even longer. I wanted to stay on the bike until dawn. Up and down the hiding hills in the neighborhood. I remember watching out for speed bumps, I remember my lights flashing on and off the roads. Time had disappeared briefly through a vortex. Then I was home, wide awake. Blue lights on the patio, buzzing through the blinds and over the couch where I fell asleep, sedated, reeling.