diary 63 (february 18)

diary 62 (december 17)

diary 61 (november 17)

diary 60 (october 17)

diary 59 (september 17)

diary 58 (august 17)

diary 57 (july 17)

diary 56 (june 17)

diary 55 (may 17)

diary 54 (april 17)

diary 53 (february 17)

diary 52 (january 17)

diary 51 (november 16)

diary 50 (october 16)

diary 49 (september 16)

diary 48 (august 16)

still on a road trip, the flowers at high elevation around snowy mt rainier were blooming, we ate breakfast the next morning at a bar restaurant looking out onto the foggy mountains that looked like someone’s basement. our brake light and blinker was out so we skipped the cities and took a little more time with things which was nice. made it to the olympic peninsula and drove along lakes and rivers the whole way. drove to the ocean one day and parked on it, climbed into the back canopy/our bed in the car and watched tv. got scared to stay where we were parked in a ditch by a river late at night and ended up waking up in the rain alongside the beach at la push. made it to brendon’s farm and had friends fly in to visit, went for long drives and swam in the river in the sun. got back to the city and to our home, and it felt good to be back. 

diary 47 (july 16)

spend time in la but not much. visit my sister and the ocean. everyone on the street looks like they’re in a heat daze. go south to my favorite part of the trip, hundreds of feet below sea level and over 100 degrees year round where people live in another world along a lake that is receding full of rot. one night we drove toward a hillside covered in wind turbines, hundreds of blinking red lights in the distance like a skyline or something. make it to mexico on a train and to vegas for the fourth of july again. in colorado we stay along a creek and bathe nude, drink a bottle of prosecco in the afternoon. visit the friend who’s been in my life the longest, and the home i lived in til i was 7 that i have hazy little kid memories of. drive along the river though villages in valleys and big ski town resorts. after that most of our destinations are abandoned towns and national parks with lots of nothing in between. endless empty land and passing through tiny highway towns, i wanted to drive in it and space out all day, so much nothing is what i wanted the most. drive to calgary through big neon yellow fields of rapeseed, the city seems like it shouldn’t be there. spent a week on a lake in montana, visited our favorite small town there twice where deer roam around, the community center is abandoned and the yards are full of garbage projects.

diary 46 (june 16)

tie up things in new york, shove thousands of dollars into a plastic bag and ride to chinatown with it, buy a sparkling water off the j train on the walk back home. go into upstate for the weekend, drive to the top of a mountain in a cloud where it’s below freezing, eat clams and canoe. i wake up at dawn and one of the cats jumps up and cuddles in front of me and brendon behind me as i climb into bed and fall back asleep in the weak light and it smells like pine from the walls of the cabin. fly to the west coast and stay in a king sized bed in a nice hotel and i feel calm knowing that i’ll be on the road for the next two months and nothing else. in portland i think about how i’ll feel maybe living there next year, the sidewalks are empty but i imagine living in a house with a backyard. stay at the farm for a bit, drive around the town and there are deer in the graveyard at dusk, to the top of logging roads into nowhere, and take a trip to the ocean and dunes. drive down to california and nevada in our big car, climb into our bed in the back after sunset in a different place each night. sleep in a desert with nothing in sight but salty mono lake on one side and mountains on the other. a nude cove on tahoe where the water looks unreal and jump off big rocks into it. drive through towns on the coast where the pastel houses have porches full of plants and it feels like all you can hear is wind chimes.

diary 45 (may 16)

the seasonal section at dollar stores have little seed packets and bags of old soil and plastic pots piled at the entrance. everything wears me out.

diary 44 (april 16)

The empty planters on the sidewalk are puddled with rainwater, have wild things growing in them and floating petals. I paint on the floor during the day and actually try to be social at night for a little while. I visit family and my little brother and sister can talk now, the forsythia is blooming and the town is the same one i’ve visited since i was a kid. Go through boxes of my mother’s old things, posters for punk shows, letters written to the hotel in nyc she lived in as a teenager, photos of my parents on road trips and their first apartment in colorado with a view of the mountains. My taxi driver from the airport plays the flute and harmonica as he drives and tells me to go to school.