So I'm eating a delicious, buttery, salty garnet yam right now and I'm going to go ahead and blame any recent fault in my life on it, and its kind. By its kind, what I reference are those objects and experiences, edible and otherwise, that so distract from introspection and writing thereof. I at some point became so involved in my actual life that I was unable to document it with any detail or length. I'm going to have to guess... this happened in Costa Rica.

And now, I'm trying to write but all I want to do is keep on taking bites of delicious yam. I have so much to say, so much to consider and share. Since I moved to Seattle, every year I have lived has felt like the most momentous and significant year I have ever lived. Every day I live feels like the saddest or happiest or most boring or most average day ever in my whole life. Especially when I eat yams. I'll let you puzzle out what emotion they most draw forth from my belly.

I have been eating quite a bit and that has been occupying quite a bit of my time. Today, Brooke and I ate Ezell's Famous Chicken for lunch. And then I threw a disc and ran and did agility and I came home and drank a protein smoothie and ate a burger on wheat with avocado, feta, spinach, grilled onions, and a fried egg and now I am finishing a huge ass yam for dessert.

I get sad when the yam flesh is all gone so then I think to myself, "Well, I'll just eat a little bit of the skin," but then a few minutes later all the skins is gone, too. Oops.

My freelance web development work is going far too well. I don't feel entirely financially secure but I certainly feel like I have too much work to do. I have been recently enjoying waking up sometime before 6:30am and starting productivity early and hard at Victrola. Sometimes I work until 3pm and sometimes until 5pm. I am producing in quality and quantity and beginning to feel that deCielo Creative Collective is gaining real credibility.

The counter to my work productivity have been Twitter and, to a different but no lesser extent, Facebook. I made a unintentional shift this year to more casual media for production online. Specifically, I stopped writing blog posts and started Twittering frequently and I stopped posting "fine" digital photographs and instead uploaded frequent life shots from my iPhone. And I do not intend to suggest that these less involved offerings are useless. Some of them are essential and true and beautiful and some of them are friggin' perfect and hilarious.

But I do value the long posts I've written on this blog, the gems about tomatoes or running or life & death or Styx. I take pride and joy in looking back and knowing what beer I was drinking on the night of January 9th, 2005. I suppose the refinement of my writing skills is not so bad either.

Truly, I would like to excavate memory and sentiment from my sister Nicole's wedding to Mark in Oaxaca. I would like to share with you my trip to Italy with Dave. Folks, Whit and Claire got married: I am now officially a third wheel to a MARRIAGE. This is serious, and I should be writing about it. In a perfect world, I would have already written somewhere between 1 – 100 pages on this season of Lost (IT WAS SO GOOD).

So, I will do it, however difficult and slow the process of writing and documenting proves. I will make sense of these fateful three years (possibly with a timeline!) and I will speculate and hint at the changes approaching. For now, I will sleep because I finished eating all the yam skin.

Allow me to brush away the cobwebs from my pixels and from my memories.

On June 26, 2006, I arrived in Seattle and was instantly lost. Literally, I was lost. I could not find my way around the city for the life of me. Ten days prior, I had completed my final day of work at Harvey Mudd College and then spent the next week packing up all my worldly belongings. I was absolutely terrified: my house in Claremont was still unsold and I had no job. But still I drove north through San Francisco and Ashland and Hood River and finally reached my new home.

I spent my first five days in Seattle somewhat painfully, getting my bearings while at the same time trying to find an apartment. All the while, I ran marathon workouts despite no consistent place to shower or cook meals. I found a place eventually, just in time before Potlatch weekend, and Brooke proved correct in claiming that I could make a living as a web developer. And the house in Claremont sold, offering hard cash to burn through as I got my life in order. But still, what the heck was I thinking?

Well, I have a fairly strong grasp of my thoughts and feelings at the time, but such is not my topic (at least tonight). Regardless, here I am, three years later, still alive and still in Seattle. What more can I say? Everything and nothing. We'll see what comes out as this and other arbitrary anniversaries roll on through my mind.

I am awake, right now, so late because—can you guess? Come on, I thought you knew me better than that. I have an early plane flight! Why else would I be awake?

Oh, right, I stay awake this late all the time when I have work to do. Um, okay, moving on to my actual topic.

Ahem.

I fly tomorrow morning to meet my sister, her fiancé, my parents, and eventually more of our family and Mark's family and their friends, for their marriage in Oaxaca, México. My sister, my Colie, is getting married.

Holy shit.

And by that I mean that I am incredibly happy and thankful for Nicole and Mark's love for each other and for this opportunity to celebrate this love with them. But, seriously, my sister is getting married. And then? Everyone else in the world is getting married, too:

• Claire Fisher and Whit Scott
• Laura Fisher and Matt
• Kristin Schwabauer and Scott Rydbeck
• Matt May and Rachel Sharpe
• George Brown and Colleen Cunningham
• Amy Moran and Don Lowe

Laura, I am sorry that I cannot make your wedding but I am happy to have talked to you today and I do want to visit Boulder. George, if you're reading this, I am not fishing for an invitation: I would just like to congratulate you and highlight how far you and Matt May have come since we were playing Resident Evil and Magic: the Gathering. Whit and Claire, I promise to do my best as Best Man Ever (Other Than Whit, and Who Is Not Allowed to Look Better Than Whit on Whit's Wedding Day).

Goodnight, and may all awake with love and happiness. And may I please please manage to wake up for my plane flight. Please.

I return now to writing at two in the morning, just hours away from a fateful trip to México. I cannot claim that I recall correctly the moments described below my present comments but I will attest that surfing in Tamarindo left an indelible impression on me.

I began surfing in earnest with only the second and final week of my time in Costa Rica. I rented an 8' 2" NSP, a veritable boat which I found incredibly easy to ride and float. Still, the first few days were fun and difficult, as I struggled without instruction to get my feet under me and catch waves. All these difficulties drifted away after an afternoon lesson with Fao from the Banana Surf Club. Two details for me were particularly useful:

1. Look up and toward your destination after catching the wave. If you look down at the board and/or water, you will fall down in the water/on the board.
2. Find the peak of the wave, start there, and take an angled attack.

The week continued, and despite greater skill and confidence, the waves were not altogether cooperating. We suffered through a few trashy days, beaten over and over by the waves. And I eventually cut down from morning and afternoon sessions to only a single, given my exhaustion and need to work. So I approached Saturday, my final day in Tamarindo, with some excitement but also apprehension. Here would be my last chance to surf on this trip.

Saturday afternoon, Bailey, Lott, Tina, Eric, and I headed back to La Casita, determined catch beautiful waves in our final session. (Ignore, please, that the rest of these folks, having later flights the next day, also surfed Sunday morning. Jerks.)

And the afternoon was perfect and beautiful, with numerous but still sparse clouds portending a peerless sunset. The waves were equal to the sky and La Casita was crowded with locals and foreigners alike. We caught what waves we could claim, and switched off on waterproof camera duty (thanks, Tina!). I had a few nice waves to start, but nothing spectacular—I was catching waves, paddling in well, and standing without trouble but never getting one of those long lefts or rights across the face. But really, with a view like this, did I actually care?

(BTW, paddle boarders are pain in the ass. "Oh, I can't turn! Oh, I'll decide to go whatever direction on the wave I want!" Jerks.)

After the sunset, we found ourselves as the only surfers in the water. Let me tell you: catching good waves is much easier when you don't have to battle for (read: defer) priority with superior surfers. And so, when I saw una bella ola on its way in, I claimed it as my own, paddling around the corner into position and then concentrating on acceleration. I felt the wave catch me and I paddled a few more and then I reached this funny moment. I knew it was time to pop up, but something felt strange or different, and as I got my feet under me, I thought to myself:

Oh, shit, I am about to ride this wave sideways!

And here is the photo of approximately three (3) seconds after that moment.

Can you see the joy? I caught this long glorious left, and I rode it and turned out, and I was satisfied. I think we all found that moment, that joy, on Saturday afternoon. And although this session was my final of this particular trip to Tamarindo, I will surely surf again, and I will return to Costa Rica.

Thanks to Tina for photographs.

If ever I love again, I will not wait to love as best as I can. We thought we were young and that there would be time to love well sometime in the future. This is a terrible way to think. It is no way to live, to wait to love.

I finished last night reading What is the What by Dave Eggers. This beautiful book moved me to tears over and over, even (or especially?) on my flight from Houston to Seattle. Yes, especially. Descending into the Pacific Northwest, I felt the echoes of a feeling of unrest from long ago, when I flew back into Los Angeles after living and working in Seattle for six weeks.

This is not right, I thought, back in 2004. I'm not supposed to be back here.

And at that moment two days ago, having departed from a life of joy, however unsustainable, in Costa Rica, and stirred by the telling of extreme hardship and transience in the life of Valentino Achak Deng, I was uncertain and dissatisfied. Am I supposed to live in Seattle? Is this right? Am I doing enough with my life? And already yesterday and today I am plagued by a persistent frustration and distraction in Seattle—an annoyance that nonetheless flitted away without fanfare on the warm ocean breeze for two weeks.

Don't get me wrong: I am happy in Seattle, but I am not altogether satisfied. A day may come when such an arrangement is not enough and I will depart for new vistas. Or maybe I am just adjusting poorly to the lack of surf.

I tried to choose only three favorite photos from our weekend trip to Monteverde but I found the task impossible. I offer you six instead.

Are we all clear as to who is the focus of this blog? Let me make it clear. I am the focus, and I am in Costa Rica. Here I am, Carlos Andrés Drew d'Avis, three times.