I feel like a wrung out rag, droopy and saggy and a little sour. I need an infusion of... what? I don't know, but I need something to change. I guess I need to change something. I'm curious, where does that zippy motivated feeling go when it leaves? Where does it come from in the first place? I haven't got a clue, but if you find mine send it home, will you? Please!
August 3--Socotra, Yemen. They looked like ranks of brown and green umbrellas covering the Hamil Plateau. Joshua didn't really give a damn what kind of trees they were, he just wanted to sit in their shade. He had been walking on the rocky track for hours, ever since his Zil rental car had cracked an axle forcing him to abandon it and continue to his meeting on foot. Damn the shoddy Russian cars that were all there was to rent in this backwater part of the hind end of the world. Half the people in Yemen had never seen a television or a phone, most of them couldn't read or sign their name, and he was supposed to secure one acre sites to build cell towers on. Who were they kidding? He had to be nuts to have agreed. God, it was hot.
Okay then. So, I'm working again today, are you working? Anybody out there?