Hotel Retreat, Day 9

Here's the pictograph on the baby changing station in the women's restroom of La Cabaña, the Mexican restaurant my colleague Alistair McCartney and I ended up at this evening.  The image represents how exhausted and spent I feel, all larval and blank.  This is not my last night in the hotel, but this is the end of my monkish retreat.  I pick up Kevin from LAX in an hour an a half and will be thrust back into shared space, the pervasive social of coupledom.  I'm looking forward to seeing him, of course.  Our cat Ted went to the vet hospital this morning for emergency surgery, a blocked urethra and kidney stones, so when I return I switch to cat nurse role, touching Ted tenderly.  I have always been his only one.

This is a picture of some seagulls I photographed on the beach, my shadow looming in the bright sun.  The squiggliness of the birds on a horizonless landscape reminds me of Yves Tanguy.

Alistair instructed me to take this picture of him.  He told me to post it on my Facebook page with the following caption:  "I picked up this stud on the beach and I took him back to my hotel room and I fucked him so hard I'm raw.  LOL."  At the of every teaching residency he and I devolve to potty humor, a co-decompression. 











I can't think of any other way to end this post other than seaweed.  There's no conclusion in this gelatinous spiral, which both frightens and entices.  My hands clench with the urge to squish squish squish.