It's Christmas time, once again, and I have found my way back to my childhood home. I have really enjoyed spending time with my family and a few friends.

Not to mention, the beach...


There has been the usual amount of seriousness about the matter...


And a Dickens-era dance.


My sibs and I had a nice jaunt around Waikiki.


We remembered my grandfather, Hollis C. Hurst, at the Utah Memorial in Pearl Harbor.


Enjoyed the sunshine.


Took a drive up North Shore.


Decorated and celebrated in our traditional irregular manner.




Took a family picture.


Were exceedingly silly.


And had some surprising moments.


Altogether, a fabulous two weeks. Not nearly enough time spent with nearly enough people. And yet, it feels right that tomorrow I make my way back to my little city on the California coast.

After just a little more sunshine...

I really feel like talking,
but not really,
y'know? 

That state of mind in which billions of fragmentary comments are zooming in one ear and out the other, most worth stating, but somehow laden with weighty emotion making public appearance a bit precarious.  I didn't have a choice earlier, I had to get home, so it was much better to deflect the attention of curious onlookers by holding my evasion device to my ear, smiling through the blotchy ocean, and speaking as clearly as I can.

I'm not really doing that bad, though.  Everything is really, really great.  Lives are being enhanced, dreams fulfilled, and great friendships preserved.  When I reason there's nothing to feel bad about at all.  Somebody sits on a stool in my mind, sipping something dry and sophisticated, cross-legged, one foot fanning the air rhythmically, saying, "Reeaally, dahling, reeally," and tilting their head, ever-so-wisely to the right.

This persona exists, but is not nearly so readily surfaced as some of the other personas, so you're more likely to run into the plain-haired, holey-socked, under-caffeinated, contemplater who "forgot" to wear makeup today.  Who is as happy about all of that as she is immediately in tears over a movie trailer or vagrant memory.  But whose poetry, drawings, and gopher thoughts will attract new friends and great conversation like a day-old baked-goods basket.  Worth more than you'd think.

Anyway, think what you will, but I'm a crier, and a damn good one at that.

I'm also good at making tea, decorating Christmas trees, helping you talk about your life, and I'd really like to hear from you, if you have some time.

Maybe by email.  I'm going to be a better correspondent.  It's my December 5 resolution.

Taking a break from my essay to ask:
Does the cat chew paper, knock things off my desk, pull things out of their cubbies, climb on my computer over my hands, and lick my water glass because she wants attention?  Or is there something else going on?