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1 year ago
Friday, November 14, 2008
Superfriends
When I was in 1st grade, my buddy Sila and I wrote a book together called Superfriends. It was this great story about two friends (us) who wore capes and could fly around and help people. We wrote every word and made all the pictures. Then it was laminated and through some connection with our teacher, the bookstore in town ended up placing the book upright in their sidewalk display window for a week or two.
It was amazing. I was a real writer! Not even ten years old and I was already able to walk down the street and see my name and Sila's on the front of our book in the window of the bookstore.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It is one of my clearest memories and I still find myself going back to it over and over again when I wage the internal battle inside about whether or not I am a writer. Now, I know I am a writer. I write. And since I was a kid, I have done a lot of writing - journal entries, stories, poems, lyrics, love letters, two novels, children's stories, and now this blog. It seems like I sit down and start a hundred stories a year and then bail out on them after a couple thousand words. I literally have hundreds of beginnings. I go back and read them now and I find crazy things like a name for a character I was using in a story I started in college is now my son's name and and stretch of road that an incredibly important scene took place on in my first novel which I wrote when living in Oregon is now a mile away from my home in Vermont. Strange, no? These things do come around again.
So I'll decide on a story idea and get into it for a while. Then I stop writing for a few weeks out of pure laziness and I lose the story. I've written two full (unpublished) novels at this point, so I've proven to my inner-doubter that I can sustain a story for a novel, and so I'm wondering if my problem is that I've just not found the right form again. I'll go back and read some of the beginnings and let myself dream about where the story might go but I rarely move on those dreams.
But like the way my arms move when I sit down at a drum kit, what comes most easily and naturally to me are children's stories. In them I find I can be more poetic and free and dreamy than when trying to stick with my "adult" novels. My two kids (and a third in my wife's beautiful belly) are such a source of inspiration for me...why not try to use that more? Why not go with that flow which seems to leak out of my fingertips like my bathtub faucet (a week ago, before we finally called the plumber)? No reason.
There is destiny. And there is work. And I believe in the two together. And no matter what I may tell myself in my weaker moments, I believe in my future. My present is pretty damn amazing right now, too, don't get me wrong (and knock on that wood right over there) but I know there's a time for me when I'll be home writing during the day instead of daydreaming about being home writing during the day in my cubicle.
Before she was my wife, about 14 years ago back in high school, she told me I was going to write books and be a great father to our kids. She was at least partly right so far (if I do say so myself). What makes me think she wasn't one hundred percent right?
Well, it's something to think about anyway.
And now, when I put my kids to bed, they ask me to tell them a story and I tell them stories of the Superfriends. Except my kids are the main characters now and every night there's a new adventure. Their favorite so far is the one where they fly across the world to help the kids who lost their soccer ball. Don't ask me why, but they love that one to the point where they request it now. Yes, these things really do come full circle.
It was amazing. I was a real writer! Not even ten years old and I was already able to walk down the street and see my name and Sila's on the front of our book in the window of the bookstore.
I remember it like it was yesterday. It is one of my clearest memories and I still find myself going back to it over and over again when I wage the internal battle inside about whether or not I am a writer. Now, I know I am a writer. I write. And since I was a kid, I have done a lot of writing - journal entries, stories, poems, lyrics, love letters, two novels, children's stories, and now this blog. It seems like I sit down and start a hundred stories a year and then bail out on them after a couple thousand words. I literally have hundreds of beginnings. I go back and read them now and I find crazy things like a name for a character I was using in a story I started in college is now my son's name and and stretch of road that an incredibly important scene took place on in my first novel which I wrote when living in Oregon is now a mile away from my home in Vermont. Strange, no? These things do come around again.
So I'll decide on a story idea and get into it for a while. Then I stop writing for a few weeks out of pure laziness and I lose the story. I've written two full (unpublished) novels at this point, so I've proven to my inner-doubter that I can sustain a story for a novel, and so I'm wondering if my problem is that I've just not found the right form again. I'll go back and read some of the beginnings and let myself dream about where the story might go but I rarely move on those dreams.
But like the way my arms move when I sit down at a drum kit, what comes most easily and naturally to me are children's stories. In them I find I can be more poetic and free and dreamy than when trying to stick with my "adult" novels. My two kids (and a third in my wife's beautiful belly) are such a source of inspiration for me...why not try to use that more? Why not go with that flow which seems to leak out of my fingertips like my bathtub faucet (a week ago, before we finally called the plumber)? No reason.
There is destiny. And there is work. And I believe in the two together. And no matter what I may tell myself in my weaker moments, I believe in my future. My present is pretty damn amazing right now, too, don't get me wrong (and knock on that wood right over there) but I know there's a time for me when I'll be home writing during the day instead of daydreaming about being home writing during the day in my cubicle.
Before she was my wife, about 14 years ago back in high school, she told me I was going to write books and be a great father to our kids. She was at least partly right so far (if I do say so myself). What makes me think she wasn't one hundred percent right?
Well, it's something to think about anyway.
And now, when I put my kids to bed, they ask me to tell them a story and I tell them stories of the Superfriends. Except my kids are the main characters now and every night there's a new adventure. Their favorite so far is the one where they fly across the world to help the kids who lost their soccer ball. Don't ask me why, but they love that one to the point where they request it now. Yes, these things really do come full circle.
excerpt from my novel "A Series of Hopes"
Listen. Listen man, he told himself. Just listen!
Rudolph began the night with a single cigarette.
Exhaled. He twirled a cigarette in his left-hand fingers like a small drum stick, three complete rotations before he gently laid it in between his lips. Ready to smoke.
The night was on. Listen man, he thought. Catch that sound out there. He closed his eyes.
Lit the match with his right hand and brought it to his mouth for the union. He listened to the music, four speakers hung high, angled just right for his seat. Saxophone. It was singing pure sadness. Rudolf sang along inside. The two of them cried and sobbed and pleaded for something, some sort of release from the tension. He was hurtin.
All at once, the horn shifted its argument, the bubbling of a breeze, and Rudolf heard a woodwind laugh out loud. It was sadness turned ‘round. But inside Rudolf’s eyes there was a funeral with old ladies in their black veils and teary cheeks, children sitting proper in their seats. In the darkness he found a casket, open lid, and he saw himself inside dressed up in darkness, fake flesh lipcolor and temples, sad.
Shit. His eyes opened with an embarrassed jerk. Glanced around nervously but nobody was looking at him. He took a big drag off the cigarette, looked down to his bourbon and sipped.
Rudolf held the syrup in his mouth until his saliva dulled the burn, swallowed.
“Alright now,” the emcee coughed, cool as Coltrane, then slipped away, it was all he said, a bastardboy of the whole joint, alive and full of hype.
The piano player, Leon, who was moving his head wavy, back-and-forth, grab the tempo out of thin air, glanced to Melvin and Rudolf, and jammed his fingers into the keys. It was Monkhard, fast anti-melody, all ten fingers worked and spun off in opposite directions, invented a reality all his own, all his own heaphead madness.
Next, Melvin. Black hat down over his eyes, lowdown like a sunset, all you could see was the smoke rising from a glow somewhere down in his dark horizon. Melvin felt around, fondled ideas, spit up silver and flush it all back down until he relaxed into a straight line, gold man, gold, walking downtown then stepped back with one foot, rested on his hind leg. Balanced himself against the rhythm he gave to the room. He plucked four strings, such cautious drama, with his big left hand wrapped around the neck of the upright bass, matched each pluck on the high end up with his ear.
Rudolf slouched. Soon’s Melvin settled back into his real groove, Rudolf splashed the huge ride cymbal to his right, and bounced a wooden tip like a fury. His left hand beat another stick against the snare, oddtime, like back East. His shoulders never moved. He was all arms. The band was off, moving and punctuating everything with question marks, exclamations, and points beyond. Rudolf shook his head, clenched teeth bit sour, a wild pace and he knew there was something extra easy about the way they were playing. Not easy, no, this was fierce, but Rudolf was thinking it was just so damn easy. That night it was just so damn easy.
Rudolph began the night with a single cigarette.
Exhaled. He twirled a cigarette in his left-hand fingers like a small drum stick, three complete rotations before he gently laid it in between his lips. Ready to smoke.
The night was on. Listen man, he thought. Catch that sound out there. He closed his eyes.
Lit the match with his right hand and brought it to his mouth for the union. He listened to the music, four speakers hung high, angled just right for his seat. Saxophone. It was singing pure sadness. Rudolf sang along inside. The two of them cried and sobbed and pleaded for something, some sort of release from the tension. He was hurtin.
All at once, the horn shifted its argument, the bubbling of a breeze, and Rudolf heard a woodwind laugh out loud. It was sadness turned ‘round. But inside Rudolf’s eyes there was a funeral with old ladies in their black veils and teary cheeks, children sitting proper in their seats. In the darkness he found a casket, open lid, and he saw himself inside dressed up in darkness, fake flesh lipcolor and temples, sad.
Shit. His eyes opened with an embarrassed jerk. Glanced around nervously but nobody was looking at him. He took a big drag off the cigarette, looked down to his bourbon and sipped.
Rudolf held the syrup in his mouth until his saliva dulled the burn, swallowed.
“Alright now,” the emcee coughed, cool as Coltrane, then slipped away, it was all he said, a bastardboy of the whole joint, alive and full of hype.
The piano player, Leon, who was moving his head wavy, back-and-forth, grab the tempo out of thin air, glanced to Melvin and Rudolf, and jammed his fingers into the keys. It was Monkhard, fast anti-melody, all ten fingers worked and spun off in opposite directions, invented a reality all his own, all his own heaphead madness.
Next, Melvin. Black hat down over his eyes, lowdown like a sunset, all you could see was the smoke rising from a glow somewhere down in his dark horizon. Melvin felt around, fondled ideas, spit up silver and flush it all back down until he relaxed into a straight line, gold man, gold, walking downtown then stepped back with one foot, rested on his hind leg. Balanced himself against the rhythm he gave to the room. He plucked four strings, such cautious drama, with his big left hand wrapped around the neck of the upright bass, matched each pluck on the high end up with his ear.
Rudolf slouched. Soon’s Melvin settled back into his real groove, Rudolf splashed the huge ride cymbal to his right, and bounced a wooden tip like a fury. His left hand beat another stick against the snare, oddtime, like back East. His shoulders never moved. He was all arms. The band was off, moving and punctuating everything with question marks, exclamations, and points beyond. Rudolf shook his head, clenched teeth bit sour, a wild pace and he knew there was something extra easy about the way they were playing. Not easy, no, this was fierce, but Rudolf was thinking it was just so damn easy. That night it was just so damn easy.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
one moment
Tonight when I was looking through an old journal, I found a fine poem I wrote about 7 or 8 years ago. I don’t have it in front of me anymore, but I have it memorized.
Glass of Wine #1
There’s not much sadder than an empty glass of wine.
There’s not much more beautiful than an empty glass of wine.
I love that. I remember writing it and I remember looking at that empty glass of wine with a drunken sort of sad grin. The end of the glass, the end of the bottle.
Good times and bad times all wrapped up into one moment.
We built a fort tonight, strong and big, with pillows and blankets draped over furniture. We had two rooms and three entrances and we had so much fun pretending to be a family of bears. We’d go to sleep and then wake to hunt food and bring it all back to our cave and share with one another. When I turned the lights off and it was dark and we only had one flashligtht between the two kids, there was a near riot. It all ended in tears and huffs and puffs and stomps off down the hall to another room. But for a few minutes there before I cut the lights, it was pure magic. It was real, true playing with random shrieks of happiness and nowhere else we ever could possibly want to be. And then I had to make it dark. I learned my lesson.
Good times and bad times all wrapped up into one moment.
Glass of Wine #1
There’s not much sadder than an empty glass of wine.
There’s not much more beautiful than an empty glass of wine.
I love that. I remember writing it and I remember looking at that empty glass of wine with a drunken sort of sad grin. The end of the glass, the end of the bottle.
Good times and bad times all wrapped up into one moment.
We built a fort tonight, strong and big, with pillows and blankets draped over furniture. We had two rooms and three entrances and we had so much fun pretending to be a family of bears. We’d go to sleep and then wake to hunt food and bring it all back to our cave and share with one another. When I turned the lights off and it was dark and we only had one flashligtht between the two kids, there was a near riot. It all ended in tears and huffs and puffs and stomps off down the hall to another room. But for a few minutes there before I cut the lights, it was pure magic. It was real, true playing with random shrieks of happiness and nowhere else we ever could possibly want to be. And then I had to make it dark. I learned my lesson.
Good times and bad times all wrapped up into one moment.
The Snow Hides - a story for F (because it is snowing tonight!)
Under the snow hides the grass yard where we’ll run and play and laugh in the summertime.
We’ll lay on blankets on those warm nights and watch shooting stars dance across the dark, prickly sky.
Under the snow hides the wooden fence next to the big field where we’ll pick wildflowers in the summer. We’ll sit up on the fence and try to count the birds flying above us as they sing from tree to tree.
Under the snow hides the pond where we’ll swim with the dogs and skip rocks in the summer.
We’ll open our eyes under the water to see the fish and long grass, we’ll see where sunlight bends.
Under the snow hides the picnic table at the top of the hill where we’ll eat lunches on hikes in the summer. We’ll name all the mountains we can see in the distance and take pictures so that we’ll never, ever forget.
Under the snow hides the trees we’ll be reaching to climb branch by branch to our tree fort in the summer. We’ll sit up on the old tire swing and get dizzy, tickling tummies as it spins and twirls through the air.
Under the snow hides a world of things we miss when it’s not the summer. We miss all the colors and smells and sounds and we daydream about when the snow will be finally melted.
But when we run and play and laugh around the yard in the summer, we might miss how we used to put on snowshoes and trek around that same grassy spot when the snowwas there.
When we find those wildflowers in the big field next to the fence in the summer, we might miss how we used to cross country ski along that fence and point out the tracks of deer and rabbits when the snow was there.
When we’re swimming in the pond and splashing with the dogs in the summer, we might miss how we used to shovel off the snow to make a rink for ice skating on that pond when the snow was there.
When we’re having a picnic at the top of the hill naming distant mountains in the summer, we might miss how we used to go sledding down that hill so fast and so fun over and over again when the snow was there.
When we’re up in our tree fort or swinging on the old tire in the summer, we might miss how we used to pile up huge pillows of snow and jump out of that tree, landing and laughing when the snow was there.
Even if it is snowy and cold or sunny and warm our best places will always be there for us and we know we’ll be outside playing. Our best places can change and be different just like the seasons.
We’ll lay on blankets on those warm nights and watch shooting stars dance across the dark, prickly sky.
Under the snow hides the wooden fence next to the big field where we’ll pick wildflowers in the summer. We’ll sit up on the fence and try to count the birds flying above us as they sing from tree to tree.
Under the snow hides the pond where we’ll swim with the dogs and skip rocks in the summer.
We’ll open our eyes under the water to see the fish and long grass, we’ll see where sunlight bends.
Under the snow hides the picnic table at the top of the hill where we’ll eat lunches on hikes in the summer. We’ll name all the mountains we can see in the distance and take pictures so that we’ll never, ever forget.
Under the snow hides the trees we’ll be reaching to climb branch by branch to our tree fort in the summer. We’ll sit up on the old tire swing and get dizzy, tickling tummies as it spins and twirls through the air.
Under the snow hides a world of things we miss when it’s not the summer. We miss all the colors and smells and sounds and we daydream about when the snow will be finally melted.
But when we run and play and laugh around the yard in the summer, we might miss how we used to put on snowshoes and trek around that same grassy spot when the snowwas there.
When we find those wildflowers in the big field next to the fence in the summer, we might miss how we used to cross country ski along that fence and point out the tracks of deer and rabbits when the snow was there.
When we’re swimming in the pond and splashing with the dogs in the summer, we might miss how we used to shovel off the snow to make a rink for ice skating on that pond when the snow was there.
When we’re having a picnic at the top of the hill naming distant mountains in the summer, we might miss how we used to go sledding down that hill so fast and so fun over and over again when the snow was there.
When we’re up in our tree fort or swinging on the old tire in the summer, we might miss how we used to pile up huge pillows of snow and jump out of that tree, landing and laughing when the snow was there.
Even if it is snowy and cold or sunny and warm our best places will always be there for us and we know we’ll be outside playing. Our best places can change and be different just like the seasons.
Animalhood - a story for T
We moved to a new neighborhood, but this one is a little different than the City where you were born. Now we live in an animalhood. Our neighbors are farms and woods and pastures and ponds.
Maybe before breakfast we can walk down that wide dirt road to see the horses. We’ll pick an apple from the tree next to their fence and hand it to one and watch and listen as he eats it in two great, chomping bites.
And after we have our snack we can go the other way, down past the chickens and hens to visit the goats and sheep. They live at the farm where we picked our pumpkin to carve for Halloween.
Do you think we should walk down that other road and visit the cows after lunch? We’ll take the dirt road next to the Old Meeting House and follow it up around the bend to where the cows and kitties and the new puppy roam about and moo at me and you.
Before dinner we’ll take a stroll up to Turtle Pond, where you and Grandpa let the turtle go back into the water after inspecting him and making sure he was OK. You carried him up there to the pond in a seashell and let him slide back into the water from the long grass on the side of the road.
After dinner we’ll take our dog out for a walk down into the field and do our best to find the moon up through the clouds. And if we’re lucky and the clouds move away, and the sky opens up, we’ll see all the stars and then you can do your best to count them like you always do. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5….
And when you’re finally tucked safely back into your bed, breathing your long, sleeping-breaths, and dreaming about all our animal neighbors, it’s time for me to smile and remember all those animal neighbors too, as I watch the fox dancing and bounding ouside the window in our field.
I wish you were awake to see him with me. I wonder if I should wake you up to see this fox, the animal you’ve only read about and never seen before. But then as fast as he came into the field, he’s gone. Bounding down the deer’s trail and disappearing into the woods and onto a new mission.
How lucky we are to live in our animalhood, where nearly every neighbor brings that wonder-filling smile to your face – the best part of my day again and again and again.
Maybe before breakfast we can walk down that wide dirt road to see the horses. We’ll pick an apple from the tree next to their fence and hand it to one and watch and listen as he eats it in two great, chomping bites.
And after we have our snack we can go the other way, down past the chickens and hens to visit the goats and sheep. They live at the farm where we picked our pumpkin to carve for Halloween.
Do you think we should walk down that other road and visit the cows after lunch? We’ll take the dirt road next to the Old Meeting House and follow it up around the bend to where the cows and kitties and the new puppy roam about and moo at me and you.
Before dinner we’ll take a stroll up to Turtle Pond, where you and Grandpa let the turtle go back into the water after inspecting him and making sure he was OK. You carried him up there to the pond in a seashell and let him slide back into the water from the long grass on the side of the road.
After dinner we’ll take our dog out for a walk down into the field and do our best to find the moon up through the clouds. And if we’re lucky and the clouds move away, and the sky opens up, we’ll see all the stars and then you can do your best to count them like you always do. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5….
And when you’re finally tucked safely back into your bed, breathing your long, sleeping-breaths, and dreaming about all our animal neighbors, it’s time for me to smile and remember all those animal neighbors too, as I watch the fox dancing and bounding ouside the window in our field.
I wish you were awake to see him with me. I wonder if I should wake you up to see this fox, the animal you’ve only read about and never seen before. But then as fast as he came into the field, he’s gone. Bounding down the deer’s trail and disappearing into the woods and onto a new mission.
How lucky we are to live in our animalhood, where nearly every neighbor brings that wonder-filling smile to your face – the best part of my day again and again and again.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Trippin' stories
I’ve driven across the United States of America seven times. From east coast to west coast and back again, many many times. Nothern routes, central routes and southerns routes. That road-travel was one of the many benefits of growing up and living in Vermont during the summers and going away to college in Eugene, Oregon and then moving to Virginia Beach and then back out to Portland for another 6 years. And then back to Vermont for now. The best way for me to get me and my stuff (and friends/family) across the country was to simply drive ourselves. Add in a round-the-country, three-week camping vacation with my girlfriend (now wife) mixed in for fun and you’ve got a storyline that at the time I didn’t realize was so unique, but now with the distance of time, I can see how special that all was.
It started with the summer trip with JK in the yellow Ryder Truck (“Daisey Fuentes”) from VT down to Central PA to party with some friends from my first year in college (before I left to go out west) then over to NJ to pick up inherited furniture for my oldest brother and then on to VA to see my girlfriend and then on to Nashville, Arkansas, my 21st birthday in Kansas City, and then out to Boulder for a few days and nights with high school friends, and then finally onto Eugene, where we immediately stumbled directly down into the dark basement of our band’s rented house where I remember Jamiroquai was playing in a smoky, beer-smelling, dankness with a red spotlight shining on my friends in the corner. That first scene in Eugene that year pretty much summed up my entire college experience, though the jam in the basement over time became other basements and living rooms and back yards and co-op housing units and bar lounges. That was a fine first trip. And destination.
Then there was the move back east after beginning our family in Oregon. That was a mid-February 8-day trek with me piloting a 26’ Uhaul truck trailing my Subaru station wagon and my cat in the cab with me mewing the ENTIRE time. Behind the cat and I, my wife, her mother, our 16-month old daughter, and our black lab drove the Pathfinder. Again, in February! There wasn’t much sight-seeing on that trip. We were focused on one thing only: Safe passage. Between the hourly updates on the walkie-talkies, there was simply constant hope to all get to our day’s end safely and with dry roads if possiblke. Incredibley there were storms east of us, west us, south of us and north of us the entire way across, but we managed to stay in between them all and we had dry roads all the way except for a few miles of snowy Nebraska highway. The first two days in the mountains of Eastern Oregon, outside of Boise, and Salt Lake City, were the most punishing for the Uhaul – I was flooring it at 15 mph with the Pathfinder behind me as they drove in 3rd gear with their flashers on…Man, they stared at the back of a Uhaul for hours and days on end. What troopers. Another fine trip. And destination. Hopefully not my last, but I’m good with it, if it is.
In between those trips there were five others, each with a million stories and laughs and characters and madness involved – too many for a blog. The opportunity to lose youself out on the road like that over and over again, never seeing the same things twice make it difficult to ever think about not traveling. When our kids are older, I cannot wait to take them out on the road with me and their mother and get lost in America and tell them stories they’re much to young to appreciate today. But for now, we have weekend trips to Maine like the one we have in a few days.
There is just nothing better than roadtrips in my opinion. But what I’ve learned is that no matter how incredible the voyage becomes, or maybe even because of the magic of the voyage, the destination is in fact the key, for this is where you get to rest and remember and appreciate it all. Which I do. I appreciate it all.
It started with the summer trip with JK in the yellow Ryder Truck (“Daisey Fuentes”) from VT down to Central PA to party with some friends from my first year in college (before I left to go out west) then over to NJ to pick up inherited furniture for my oldest brother and then on to VA to see my girlfriend and then on to Nashville, Arkansas, my 21st birthday in Kansas City, and then out to Boulder for a few days and nights with high school friends, and then finally onto Eugene, where we immediately stumbled directly down into the dark basement of our band’s rented house where I remember Jamiroquai was playing in a smoky, beer-smelling, dankness with a red spotlight shining on my friends in the corner. That first scene in Eugene that year pretty much summed up my entire college experience, though the jam in the basement over time became other basements and living rooms and back yards and co-op housing units and bar lounges. That was a fine first trip. And destination.
Then there was the move back east after beginning our family in Oregon. That was a mid-February 8-day trek with me piloting a 26’ Uhaul truck trailing my Subaru station wagon and my cat in the cab with me mewing the ENTIRE time. Behind the cat and I, my wife, her mother, our 16-month old daughter, and our black lab drove the Pathfinder. Again, in February! There wasn’t much sight-seeing on that trip. We were focused on one thing only: Safe passage. Between the hourly updates on the walkie-talkies, there was simply constant hope to all get to our day’s end safely and with dry roads if possiblke. Incredibley there were storms east of us, west us, south of us and north of us the entire way across, but we managed to stay in between them all and we had dry roads all the way except for a few miles of snowy Nebraska highway. The first two days in the mountains of Eastern Oregon, outside of Boise, and Salt Lake City, were the most punishing for the Uhaul – I was flooring it at 15 mph with the Pathfinder behind me as they drove in 3rd gear with their flashers on…Man, they stared at the back of a Uhaul for hours and days on end. What troopers. Another fine trip. And destination. Hopefully not my last, but I’m good with it, if it is.
In between those trips there were five others, each with a million stories and laughs and characters and madness involved – too many for a blog. The opportunity to lose youself out on the road like that over and over again, never seeing the same things twice make it difficult to ever think about not traveling. When our kids are older, I cannot wait to take them out on the road with me and their mother and get lost in America and tell them stories they’re much to young to appreciate today. But for now, we have weekend trips to Maine like the one we have in a few days.
There is just nothing better than roadtrips in my opinion. But what I’ve learned is that no matter how incredible the voyage becomes, or maybe even because of the magic of the voyage, the destination is in fact the key, for this is where you get to rest and remember and appreciate it all. Which I do. I appreciate it all.
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