Walking to my piano lesson, I saw a sticker on the back of a truck. Wisely driven? it said. I took it as a sign that what I've been considering for the past couple of days is actually a good idea. To wit: because I have had so much to think and write and do on the outside of the Cabinet lately, I've been giving what's in the Cabinet shorter shrift than I'd like. I never wanted this place to be full of "then I went here, and then I did this" updates. And yet that's what I have the brainspace for, most days. For the next week or so, just to give myself a rest, I'm going to let myself go as close to word-free here as I want. Some days, I may find myself unable to stay quiet. Some days, I may just be glad for the silence of an image I can offer here. I don't believe that I'm making a gradual exit from these writings; in fact, I believe that once I'm home, this place is going to be crucial to me in all kinds of ways, just as it was before I left to come here, and just as it's been throughout my time here. But just for right now, I need one less commitment that involves words.

Forty-one years ago today, my father and mother met on a blind date. She had masses of curly red hair; he had a shock of thick dark hair that fell over his forehead again and again. They went to an amusement park and rode the Tilt-a-Whirl. Lucky for me, by the end of the night they were goners.