A red helicopter is buzzing over the bay. After weeks of fog and smog, Catalina is finally searing its way across the horizon. There's a breeze and sun, convertibles cruising the boulevard, a yacht on the water, crows. The neighbors are walking by, slower than yesterday. They dress in bright, bold colors, and he always wears a hat. For all the busyness of this place, it feels more neighborly than our house on Silktree ever did. Car alarms go off every night around eleven, but there's no one screaming bloody murder at their granchild across the street or punk kids throwing rocks in the pool from next door (or blowing out your air conditioner with a pellet gun, or letting their ferocious dog out to attack innocent bystanders).

It's easy to be overcome by the illusion of self-importance. Especially when you have an account on facebook, a twitter page, and a blog. Lately, I've toyed with the idea of dropping them all. Like when I quit going to New Life and started going to St Francis instead. It kept occurring to me, Sunday after Sunday, 'these people won't actually miss me.' It wasn't a sad thought; it was liberating. But as you see, I have not quit the blog. I feel like I've an obligation to your internet routine, being here every now and then with something new. When I really feel like quitting is when I find myself fiercely curious to know who is reading and why and from where and for how long. I'll putter about on my analytics page, frustrated with the teasingly minute information it gives me, only to realize how absurd it all is. Like when you realize you've just had a lengthy, intense conversation with yourself in the mirror. 'Fool,' you say, 'you really need to get out more.'

But it's not so idiotic to want some kind of response, really. Because blogging is more like the conversation in the mirror than anything else. That's why I'm so thankful, you regulars, that you post comments all the time. It reminds me that I'm not chattering away at myself. There is still conversation left in the world. We still relate.

The world passes by around me, not one of these pedestrians giving me a second thought - most of them with stories more interesting than my own. I will never know them, they will never know me. I am as inconsequential as the crab in the sea. It is not a sad thought; it is strangely liberating. (Thought not exactly true.)

Thank you for not being strangers.