Perhaps it is worth it in the end to go away if coming home is this good. Basho, my dog (which translates, roughly, as this human's heart from the language of the god's, but more fierce more elemental than that in the true tongue) is ricocheting about the house with one of his bones, hiding and uncovering and showing me all of the best places and now, lying at my feet. I have been thrumming all day, wanting his dog body next to me. I am senseless without him. Really. I got the mad love for this here creature.

Frances, near as close to my heart as Bashi, took him in during my absence. I got the mad love for that one over there too. And Jeff. And Buddy. Thanks, my friends.

My trip log will have to wait until another day. Suffice to say, I had a grand old time. Since last we met, gentle reader, I've been to Boston and New Hampshire. I like it better here, but I liked it there too. I like my buddies. I like sfitz best of all, but I already knew that. I like the movie Secretary. I like trampling through Harvard Square with a pack of friends, all talking over one another, all these different and strange lives spilling out over me, washing me with contentment. I like playing cards for hours in a bar. I like camping in a cold fall night in a wild wood. I like a camp fire. I like being around people who've known me for a long time. I like meeting them again. But really, in the end, what I like best is coming home.

Ah, but here's the rub. Tomorrow is Monday. Fuck.