Snow Canyon

Wake at sunrise in the desert, gentle light streaming in through windows you opened late in the night for this exact purpose. In the land of fire, you must greet the world early, must step out before the streets are sizzling and rendered useless. I walk up to the mouth of the canyon, red rocks rising to greet me. On the descent, an endless valley stretches out, unforgiving landscape bent to the will of humans. Manifest destiny as a blanket excuse for dominion, never a thought to to the why of it all. Never a thought to just because you can doesn't mean you should. 

Return to find nothing at your feet but a day of writing. Books and notebooks scattered around you like a bed of leaves, like a place to rest. Ten years ago you started telling a story, and it's time to bring it home, now, time to take the next step. There was a time when I felt hope, and potential, and joy, and I think maybe it's not too late to feel those things again. You know there was a time you wanted to die, but you can't quite remember why, can't quite imagine what that feels like. 

The desert always felt like home, the American West always sounded like a promise. Warm rocks cooling against your body after sunset, as all the stars in the Universe came out to greet you. Towering peaks guiding your way, air big enough to fill your insatiable lungs. It all started here. 

Maybe something new can, too. 

Ivins

Another four-hundred miles disappear under the station wagon's relentless gait, the American Southwest unfolding like a greeting card ahead of you. The red rocks tower around the little townhouse where you pull in, retired neighbors immediately checking in to see if you belong there. It's a hundred and five degrees and you are as happy as you've ever been, even though not a single cupboard hides a coffee maker. 

It's been nine years since you went on the first of these trips. It's been 30 years since you made friends with the strange boy who gave you a Book and changed your life. Your whole life has been a series of puddle jumps around the good word, and at the end of it when they ask what you'll remember you know it's this. One day a boy gave you the word, and it carried you across oceans and through decades. 

One day a boy gave you the word, 
and in turn it gave you the world.  

2,300 miles

The last few miles you fly down a mountainside, each twist as familiar to you as the lines on your skin. 2,300 miles to cross America, and what you'll remember most is how strange the road kill in Missouri. Armadillos and turtles all the way down. In Kentucky you met a friend for a coffee, as though it wasn't the strangest stopover. In Colorado, you drank whiskey with people who flew across the borders just to end up in the same little town as you and the two years you hadn't seen each other no longer existed. The car decides to twist and ache, its alarm ringing out as you walk away from it. You spend countless evenings trying to solve its riddles. 

And then suddenly here you are, back at the drawing board. The desert sun is warm on your skin, the evenings long and inviting. All of summer lies ahead and you have everything to win from its promises. 

You know it's a gift, you see it clear. 

Now is the time to unwrap it. 

Ohio

You leave Brooklyn in a rush, no room for tears, or maybe you've just done this before, the goodbyes become routine. You drive out of the across the Verrazano-Narrows, watching the skyline disappear in the humid haze, cursing New Jersey drivers like it's a treat. You sit in silence, watching the miles disappear behind you, you think you should be talking yourself into answers but your brain is tired. You're happy enough just watching the rolling hills pass by. 

This morning I found two four-leag clovers growing next to each other in the park near the pier. I was only hoping for one, the duo felt like a kind nudge, a little wink. Off you go, you'll be alright. 

I'll be back, and all that. 

This life was meant for living.  

Big Fish, Little Fish

Another year comes to an end, another summer stretches out before you. There’s a routine to this madness now, a delicious peace to the motions. You stand on a Red Hook street corner and say strange goodbyes into the summer sun. Go home to scrub the kitchen tiles, go home to scrub yourself out of the apartment. You keep coming back. 

There’s a comfort in your constant returns. 

Summer begins now. The road lies ahead. Pack your plants into the little station wagon and figure out the rest as you go. It’s an unexpected life. 

You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Worm

Feel the mushroom cloud like a promise not a death sentence, see time stretch around you in a kaleidoscope instead of a straight line, what freedom. The words look the same on the page, and you appreciate their steadfast reliability when everything else swims around you. Two more sleeps in this bed, two more morning walks around the pier, one day next week the road will rise to meet me, and I'll be ready when it does. Eveyrthing is hard when you look right at it, but the thing is, summer lies ahead of you, green grass and glittering waters do not need you to be ready. The awe comes by design. 

The Starlighter 
is working. 

Moments

Things can change in the smallest of moments, in the slightest turn of events. A small bar tucked into a side street, one more drink at last call against better judgment, the acute timeline of a summer calendar setting your synapses on fire. He tries to see you again, and you wonder what can become of crumbs. 

Knowing full well that a handful of moments
can make an entire cake.