People ask me where I am. These are the answers.
Riding out of West Virginia, the political thoughts I’d tamped down in the Buffalo Creek Valley resurface and in between the breaths taken away by Mountain Mama and Big Daddy Coal, I feel myself getting angry at Hillary Clinton.
Perhaps it’s the rain’s lullaby that smooths out the second night’s sleep in the van or maybe Sadie and I are just finding our spots. There’s a bar in the foldout we both seek to avoid.
I babied Dumbo down the Mingo Highway and then along the Guyandotte River for about 5 miles hoping that the temp would stay even and the clamp on the radiator would hold.
I couldn't keep up with my thoughts on the four lane, but the overwhelming message was… slow down. Disconnect. Be with yourself. Be in the place where you are. I didn't listen.
I wake up to the view of the lake out the back doors of my van that I’ve been dreaming of. I want to sit at the table and drink a cup of coffee and write.
It's the way the city starves you that you don’t even realize, like how it takes the stars from you and makes you look for something else to look at.
