I'm almost finished reading "House of Leaves" by Mark Z. Danielewski (and written less than a block from my own house . It's a very strange and interesting book, one that I wouldn't recommend others take on until they read my (forthcoming) or another person's review. This is a book some people I know would love, others would hate, and others would get trapped inside, forced to claw their way to the back cover regardless of their feelings during the journey (that would be me).

At any rate, most of the story centers around this house that has a black, featureless, and ever changing labyrinth inside it. The labyrinth is both a menacing antagonist, and a trope for our own unrealized fears. At any rate, one of the most unsettling (pun not intended, but noticed retrospectively) features of the maze is that the walls (and floors, ceilings, etc.) will change arbitrarily, around a person, and when they're not watching.

Jumping back to reality, last night I dropped off Emily at San Francisco International Airport at around 10:15 last night, and was absolutely zonked. It was hard enough to stay awake going there (jetlag still telling me I should absolutely be asleep) but trying to get back without someone keeping me awake seemed an unlikely venture.

So, after dropping her off I drove to the area known to some as international terminal short-term parking, someplace I rarely think about and never visit. Pumping in and out of turns I make my way through the newly-constructed labyrinth of concrete and halogen to that desolate parking arena, wind up the corkscrew to the third level and find a spot between cars, pull up the emergency brake, throw back my seat and lie on top of it for a good nap.

Having set my cellphone alarm to wake me in an hour, I wake and look around to find that the tide of cars, the defining members of the space around me, has receded, with no car to blemish the yellowblack concrete walls for a hundred feet. Resetting the alarm for another 15 minutes I wake to see the walls restored, bracketed by SUVs and Mercedes. Back to sleep and the cars change again, but nobody's ever there. As I pull out two hours after my arrival, there is no sign of humanity save for the smarte-carte nuzzling my own Honda, obviously lonely for steel companionship in this tidal maze of concrete and industry.

Anyhow, I got home fine, after paying $8 in parking fees and driving through the midnight caltrans construction traffic that, like the tides, serves as the slightly lesser swell in the 24-hour Bay Area traffic oscillation.

Well, off to work!