I started two seperate blogs by accident, a couple of years ago, and now I'm hoping this entry goes to the one I want. I have been continuing to write about the desert as some big metaphor, and this is really more of a test entry. I think I'd like to delete the less-realized blog, but we'll see what happens. I'm not sure my actual life is interesting enough for anyone to follow, but the vast, etherial desert seems like something to which more people can relate. Even if "my" desert is just some low buzzing between the ears, there seems to be something appealing about it. Neurons continue to fire during sleep, and dreams arise out of the grey matter. That grey matter seems equivalent somehow to the shifting sands and whatever secrets they have covered. Perhaps it's like the old song, "Synchronicity II", by a band called The Police. In the lyrics to that song, something's happening in one place, just as the Loch Ness Monster stirs, thousands of miles away, and occurances that seem unrelated normally have a connectedness to them. I doubt my writings stir any prehistoric monsters, but hopefully they will at least amuse someone.

I haven't been here in a while. That is to say that I haven't been to this digital desert; I have continued to write longhand, in journals. I'm listening to a Lyle Lovett recording on compact disc, and his songs hearken back to the old days of Texas Swing. I've only been through Texas briefly in the real world. Texas seems bigger than its actual piece of real estate, much the way God seems too big to fit inside any one religion.

My soul often wants to return to Texas and parts west, as I've seen them, and as I've imagined them. The desert goes on for miles and miles, and my imaginary digs there, alongside some etherial version of old Route 66, are a place I return to often, in my mind. It may be the closest I have to that "safe place" where hypnotists tell people to go to in their minds. I've heard of such a place in recordings that are supposed to help a person relax.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I want to mentally wander south to where Willie Nelson and Kinky Friedman live among the ghosts of Lyndon Johnson, and other famous Texans who have moved onto the next plain. I don't know why, but it all has some appeal to me.