It's been something of a tumultuous summer. I'm sitting here just after dusk atop a half-finished cinder-block amphitheater in the middle of the desert 10 miles west of Tecate Mexico watching flowering youth awkwardly rebel against their repressive protestant benefactors and I find myself looking back with mixed emotions. On one hand, I'm roughly where I had planned to be (though almost two months later than planned) and things seem to have panned out as well as can be expected from someone with my particular weaknesses. On the other, I'm worried that my expectations may have suffered disheartening re-calibration. It used to be the distant dreams and grande schemes that kept this boat afloat. But now that I'm actually here, I'm having a hard time remembering why. I worked so hard to give myself a chance at something beautiful and now all I can think about is how afraid I am that I'm just going to blow that chance after everything; or waste it. Waste it on what? On worshiping a chance I'd never be brave enough to take? I'm haunted by the feeling that I'm woefully unprepared, and yet I am absolutely certain that preparation at this point is just an excuse to procrastinate further. Life just isn't as attractive when you aren't dying for it.