As we lay back and think

Writing is a way to keep from disappearing.  It's like that moment right before you begin when you don't know why you're here.  Okay, I'll take it easy with the second person.  I often don't know why I'm here on earth and there may not be a reason.  Many people believe there is definitely a reason.  I don't care I just want to understand people and what we are doing on the earth.  At any moment I can ask myself what I'm doing and have two responses: (1) sitting in the Trezevant common room blogging on my laptop as Valeria sits on the blue jean couch reading a book and (2) contributing to a moment in history, making history, changing Valeria's life, having my life changed by Valeria, being a ghost, an alien, a contributing factor to the pollution of the atmosphere.  

Some people use writing to convey lies and reveal secrets they do not know are true of themselves.  We have such wonderful capacities for denial that sometimes these stories make us feel right at home.  Celebratory dances of denial last night made me sleep better when I finally returned to my room.  Valeria and I went to a dance club and I tentatively entered the building, knowing how many crime scenes from T.V. and movies take place at clubs.  I took in all the silent messages sent by the people around, perhaps finding enough information to convince myself we were safe so that I could get on with the dancing.  The man at the entrance who asked for our I.D.s, then the man right as we entered the doors who asked us to walk through a metal detector, and finally the man blocking the door to the dance floor, who told us we had to wait fifteen minutes, were deemed safe.  It would have been so nice if that were true.  I am shocked when the dance floor finally opens up and I walk into an episode of CSI or Law and Order, except the dance club is nearly empty and I am standing there.  I survey the room, giving each corner a quick glance, and notice that each of the three bars is manned by a man in black, standing such that we cannot see their faces.  Their arms are crossed behind their backs and the glowing bottles of alcohol behind them are clear, white, and illuminated.  It looks like a trip to the North Pole except buried in the snow are bottles of Smirnoff.  That just does not work as an association, so what is the deal with advertising these days?  Why must alcohol look so otherworldly and special?