As this long and arduous week draws to a close, I am left introspective and somewhat melancholy; a lingering sense of inadequacy haunts an already burdened spirit. More on that some other time, however; for now, a brief (ha!) account of the past couple days.

My father, sister, and I camped in the desert over the weekend (The Evil One—pardon me, my stepmother—loathes the outdoors), and I must say that although invaluable amenities (namely, a perpetual Internet connection and indoor plumbing) were unavailable, I enjoyed myself immensely. To fully appreciate life, one must experience the simple beauty of nature, and escape the trappings of the material world.

My father, being in one of the manic stages of his bipolar disorder, had been bustling around the house gathering up supplies and food like mad for days, and seemed particularly excited about this trip. My poor dad—he finds managing his small business unfulfilling and relatively fruitless, and barely enjoys the quality of his life any longer. I'm glad he's able to spend some time with his children away from the stress and strife of everyday life; I think it's good for him to get away from the computer every once in a while.

So it was that early Friday afternoon, we embarked on this our trek to find inner peace and harmony with nature. All right, so perhaps that's overdoing it a tad, but there is something to be said for finding joy in the small things—studying the paths of raindrops down a car windshield, enthralling in the chaotic wonder of patterns in desert sand, admiring the silently turning cogs of that intricate, organic machine known as Life.

In the comfort of our nicely heated homes, we take much for granted, such as having feeling in our extremities. The sheer frigidity of the desert at night is incredible; temperatures this weekend ranged from mid-20s to low 30s, and you could feel the icy tendrils of cold seep through your many layers of clothing, chilling you to the marrow. My sleeping bag was no match for the freezing weather—despite the protection of the tent, I needed to cocoon myself in blankets just to keep warm. (My sister, age 6, couldn't handle the cold at night, so I gave her one of my blankets.) During the day, a wintry breeze persisted, in spite of the sun's warming rays.

Although I think the desert is perfectly nice to look at in daytime, its true splendour is revealed to me when Darkness Falls. ("Now a major motion picture—see it today in a theatre near you!") Around midnight, unable to sleep, I decided to take a stroll through the campground. Stepping outside the tent, the first thing I noticed was the night sky. The moon reigned, a ghostly galleon tossed upon gloomy waters, illuminating the clouds that loomed over the desert. As I gazed into the darkling firmament, ablaze with thousands of stars, mere pinpricks in the vast, black expanse, I was reminded of humankind's insignificance. In this world of technological advances, fast food, and reality television, I think we forget, drunk with delusions of grandeur and our own inherent arrogance, that the Earth is but a speck of dust in the infinity of the Universe, and the entire history of Homo sapiens barely a smudge on the shiny finish of Time.

Disclaimer: For those of you weary of my incessant rambling, you may stop here; I understand that you are faithful readers with attention spans vastly depleted by 15-second commercials and Total Request Live, and normal people who really don't give a jot about the mundane happenstance of this tango—no, better make that funeral march—I call Life. Thus, I have split tonight's drivel into two posts: the entry above, mainly a metaphysical aside tucked within a travel narrative; and that below, primarily chronicling the adventures of registering for my next quarter at Cal Poly. Of course, if you actually enjoy reading my entries, no matter how soporific they may be, by all means read both. Thank you for your cooperation. We now return to the regularly scheduled program. End transmission.

[Exit Orpheum.]