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.