And it begins

In an effort to decrease wasted time and increase productive procrastination, I have started a blog. For some, I may be joining the blog world late, but for others, it is still a realm of unattainable possibility open to only the technologically savvy. Considering my readership, the blog will remain PG (for the most part, but may dabble in PG13). I hope to store my thoughts as they come, to practice the lost art of writing, and to essentially deposit my memories here, on my computer memory for you to read, rather than leave them stagnant in my frequently unreliable head.

Case in point: on field quarter, in Mexico, as we studied the ecology of the kelp forests, the ongoing abalone controversy came up in discussion. I proudly announced to my class that every Sunday while I was growing up in cozy Larkspur, my grandmother (who at the time was about 55-65) skin dove for abalone in the frigid bay waters over the weekend so that she could come home and bake/grill/sauté it and serve this tasty meat to no less than ten members of the Larkins clan and extensions in a complete three course meal. Every Sunday. For ten years. I believed wholeheartedly, and incorrectly, that not only were we served abalone EVERY Sunday night, this precious abalone was caught from the deep blue upwelled waters of the San Francisco Bay (which does not house a kelp forest, might I had, thereby unable to support abalone life anywhere closer to us than Monterey Bay) by none other than my grammy Irene. My classmates were obviously duly impressed with the grit, athleticism, and fortitude of this tough old bird of a grandmother I had.

Although my grandmother does possess grit (just ask the Tracy folk she grew up with), athleticism (she could kick my butt in tennis until I was 15), and fortitude (she does still make multiple course meals for large amounts of family and friends), it turns out she was not an abalone diver during her spare weekend hours (but she is a certified skin diver).

And I digress...

This blog, I hope, will be a place to write my writings - that is, the ideas that come to my head, scattered and scrambled as they may be, as they come. My memory will now have an extra storage compartment, with a little help from my old friend the Internet.

From Chile to Guatemala to Mexico (three times) my year has taken me many places (all Spanish speaking) and back to solid ground in my cozy house in Denver, where I write from my trusty couch, which is not actually mine but came with the house (along with the gunk on the bathroom floor, the faulty heater, the lazy drier, and the leaky window above my bed). The couch has been witness to debauchery, tears, crumbs, and plenty of silly smiles. It is only fitting that it takes some ownership of the adventures it has heard about in our life together, the couch and me. So I write this for the couch, and all those who identify with it. All those who hear about my happily semi-sedentary lifestyle can now read about it. And see the photos I capture. And the videos I take. Happy reading and happy trails!

"You, whose day it is
Get out your rainbow colors
And make it beautiful."