Day off.
It feels like the first day off in forever.
We’ve navigated across the panhandle, through the lazy highways of the deep south and over to New Orleans. With the east coast in the rear view, our past lives dim in the sunset and wake of my Chevy Express van.
I tried to live in Florida, years ago. In St. Augustine, I’d go to the beach after the lifeguards left and swim when the sharks were hungry, reading and sleeping in the sand until the day faded. The slow pace of life strongly contrasted with my buzzing mind. I started absentmindedly saying y’all in an unintentional, lame way of trying to fit in.
After that, I gave Oakland, CA a shot. The Bay Area is breathtakingly beautiful. But it didn’t click with me. Something in the water or something about the energy wouldn’t work with my mind. I wandered aimlessly with unkempt hair and disconnected thoughts. Every day at my empty desk with nothing to say, like a kindly Jack Nicholson in The Shining.
I tried to to make these places my home. I thought that my ability to live in hotels made me capable of pulling up stakes — anytime, anywhere.
Maybe it wasn’t the places. Chances are it was the relationships I pursued. People that didn’t line up with the right frame or focus to take a proper family photo.
The State Of Gold was the seed that sprang the second I returned to New York. I stuck my feet in the snow and knew I was where I belonged. I belong in Kingston.