Picnic in the Park

Balboa Park was beautiful today. Windy, but sunny and full of people with their dogs and their footballs and their frisbees. I have a lot of memories of that place. Sometimes I think it is the one place in San Diego most apt to remind me that I don't live there anymore.

And sometimes I feel the same way about Costco.

I keep noticing the way the rooms in my family's house smell. How much they smell just the way they did when I lived there by myself. Even after a terrible fire and a complete reconstruction. I catch familiar breaths of warm upstairs or cool ashes in the fireplace or the way the bathroom smells when you've just had a shower and you open the window to let out the steam. This was once my home. But even now, when I have a key and a room that is almost officially mine, I can't help but feel that it is no longer my home. That it is no longer the place that will house my newly-made memories. That it is no longer a safe resting place for the memories I have already made.

This morning, I awoke from a dream in which I was out on a date with Ralph Lauren. I wasn't wearing any make-up and was still in my pajamas, but he was very nice to me, and I was looking forward to going out with him again. And my family, all of whom were there for some reason, were very supportive of that. I'm inclined to find the entire notion ridiculous.

Despite four reasonably satisfying performances, I somehow manage to come away from the weekend feeling less than satisfied, less than accomplished, less than finished. Maybe that's what keeps me on my toes.