sounds familiar

Good morning from a forest.

Yesterday, in the morning after a night of consistent, if not heavy, rain, I walked our full garbage bag down to toss it into the dumpster.

The trees here just a little north of Boston somehow remind me of a couple places we stayed in California on the front end of this trip, when things were still beginning and new. For a moment, I remembered some of the joy I’d felt then when I would stop and contemplate our situation.

You know the special kind of remembering where you’re almost there again? Remembering that comes with feelings and smells and sounds, not just the usual mental diary entries with pictures? It was that kind.

Walking back through the trees, everything wet from rain, I had a flash moment where I recalled, bodily, how free and amazing I felt then, knowing I had a year to explore creation with my family, anticipating.

And here I am, eight months later and a whole United States away from those first places. That inchoate joy now come of age and so full inside me it is simply me. Happy and together and knowing that holding onto this learning come the nearing after is imperative.

Sorry, I know I say the same things over and over. Hugs.

It rained all night last night.

It’s OK, we’ve had some beautiful Spring weather and rain is a gift. In the RV, though, rain is a very noisy gift. Drops like a thousand tiny gunshots pop and snap off the roof. I’ve come to like the sound, but it is sometimes loud enough to distract someone trying to fall asleep.

Keaton has her first musical infatuation. She’s fallen for an edgy young female artist called Billie Eilish. If you’re hip, you’ll likely not be surprised, as seventeen year old Ms. Eilish is everywhere and on every music journalist’s tongue at the moment, and thirteen year old girls are her primary demo. Keaton quite literally listens to her non-stop, owns her merch, reads and watches everything she says and does.

I’ve got to give Keaton credit for being well ahead of the hype bandwagon (must get it from Dad), though. She’s been on Billie this entire trip. It’s been fun seeing this artist my daughter adores also become a scene darling, fun watching Keaton be excited for her growing fame. It’s also given the two of us a lot to talk about.

We discuss the production of each song, the lyrics and instrumentation. She shares video clips with me, interviews and promos, and we talk about her strong sense of identity and her seeming pride in her uniqueness. I praise these positive and empowering traits. She also swears like a sailor, though not in her music, and vocally condemns peer pressure and casual drug use. All excellent fodder for mature father/daughter conversations, honestly.

So, long story short, I scored us two after-market tickets to Billie’s sold-out show in Montreal next month. Because she’s such a rising star (on the cover of Billboard, #1 on iTunes, etc.) I paid a hefty upcharge, more than I’d ever normally pay for a show that’s not Paul McCartney or something, but I’m really excited to go with her. She’s excited too, and I think it will be an awesome time together.

Notch another one for “cool dad,” please. While you’re at it, scratch one in for “cool daughter” too.

Hugs and loves.

Listening to yourself is hard.

My body is doing its best to communicate with me, but there’s so much external input and stimulation that I often don’t listen well. Our conversations aren’t always the most productive…

“You can stop eating now, there’s more than enough food in here already.” But there’s more noodles and sauce and the bread’s still warm…

“We’re sweating and anxious again, why do we keep doing this?” The money is great and they gave me a title…

“Hey, let’s go for a walk, our muscles haven’t been used enough today.” I just got here though, I deserve a little break…

“Let’s not do that again, remember how we felt last time, and literally every other time?” Well, today is today and I know my limits.

“We should just sit here and listen to things. The sun is warm and feels good on our skin.” But this Wikipedia article on the history of fireworks, stock’s down, and what Trump did today…

“It’s nice, right? You can have more of this feeling any time you want, just repeat the same stimuli.” But Walmart has it in a bottle now for only 99¢!

Yeah, not easy.

“Bathe less,” instructed a poem I read.

I’ll grant that clean underwear should be renewed daily, but on this trip I’ve come to know that, other than the hands and maybe face, daily washing is largely unnecessary, at least when the day is hardly physically demanding. Besides, I like the smell of myself when I allow it to develop a bit. Others, I’m not sure… but I like it.

I’m out here with the bugs, so many little flies at this campground, some of them bite, but it’s like their hearts aren’t in it, as they’re slow and mostly they don’t. Today is the first no-op day we’ve had in a forest for a little while, reminding me of the early days of the trip. A trip which now only has two months left.

I’m writing on my phone, as I’ve done this entire trip. Phone’s on silent, as it’s also been this entire trip. No ringing, no dinging, no vibration. Blessedly, the device is, very slowly and with great difficulty, becoming less of a thing to me. Its primary functions now playing music and wasting time – these two functions are distinct from one another.

I’ve given more over to the belief that the convenient invention in my pocket is a real problem. Being ever connected to everywhere and everything is nothing but distraction from this where and this thing. Maybe it’s not the same for you, but it’s definitely this way for me.

Worse, the connected world, in particular social media, has moved far beyond simply trying to influence my buying decisions and now works to influence my worldview, opinions, beliefs, and even voting habits. “They” want you to experience and live in the world they’re crafting, when your world is really all around you, begging to be experienced with the entirety of the senses gifted you at birth.

I’m not going crazy I promise. Hugs.

Driving around the country for a year you can’t help but notice some trends.

One trend we’ve seen is what Sharaun calls the “nice house, junkyard, nice house” pattern. More scientifically, I’ve started referring to this as the “front yard binary distribution.” (I settled on this because the phrase “pride of ownership” feels condescending and privileged.)

The divide between the two types of front yards, those tidy and well manicured versus those where a sea of un-cut grass surrounds flotsam of scrap machinery, lumber, and never-burned burn piles, is so stark I wonder if it’s something primal in us that’s been around forever.

Like in caveman days I can hear one clansman say to the other, “Dude maybe we should, I dunno, pick up these animal bones and entrails from dinner last night and bury them away from camp? Also maybe let’s not poop right here? Couldn’t we do that on the other side of that hill? And what are we keeping all these rocks for anyway? Are we ever going to do anything with them?” To which I assume the second guy responds, “Huh? Why? You too good for bones?”

And thus was born the distribution.

Peace.

We live in an RV and still have room for stuff we don’t need.

I have four pair long pants I really wear, two of which have zippers at the knee and thereby transform into shorts on demand. The rest languish and could be donated. I have maybe fifteen t-shirts, but only five or six are in heavy rotation. Could donate the others. Two sweaters (one tan and one black) feels right. Altogether too many socks, undershirts and underwear, could donate a third.

We have too many cups. We don’t entertain often. We have exactly six plates and six bowls, we did well on them. We have too many sharp knives and one too many sets of salad tongs. We have stainlessness steel straws and a set of metal kebab sticks and both feel unnecessary. We have pots and pans dialed-in, one small and one large frying, one medium sauce, and one large soup. I wash the same pot and same pan daily, sometimes multiple times, and that feels right.

We have enough books to build a secondary shelter if the RV ever becomes uninhabitable. We regularly swap them at Goodwills and laundromats and campground little libraries but this family be reading so there’s always loose stacks just piled around.

Same with our stockpile of secondhand DVDs. We rarely have good enough connection, or enough cellular bandwidth to spare, for streaming – so we watch DVDs on the hacked Wii. We trade them in and out as well, but there’s still too many. How I ever expect to watch The Godfather with the kids in the RV is beyond me.

Even here, in this small space, we have more than we strictly need. There’s bound to be some learning there.

Peace.

I love the shape of my wife.

I sneak glances. The curves of her, the lines. When she changes for bed, I watch from the corners of my eyes. I put my hand on her knee in church and my boxer briefs strain just a little, even in God’s house.

After a shower she’s wrapped in a towel and her skin is pale and her hair drapes damp. Under there is nothing, but it’s everything I want more than anything. Soft and smooth and continuous to the touch, grabbable by handfuls in the best places.

She smacks my hand away with an annoyed smile. It’s difficult not to want her at all the inopportune times, at all the times. I know what’s under those jeans, black, little polkadots rimmed with lace, a tiny bow, centered. All the times.

I run my hand down her side and into the warm hollow just before the rise of her hip. I could shrink myself and live in that hollow, set up camp, feast on milky thigh for every meal.

Hugs.