Pine pollen swirls in thick clouds like yellow smoke. My phone us dusted with the stuff as I type.

A fat red snake moves easily through the sand and disappears into a patch of dune grass seemingly too small to hide in.

Another frustrating morning with Keaton. Tooth and nail and weeping and gnashing of teeth. Seems every few weeks. I forgot how hard it is trying to become an adult. I try empathy but she’s not stable enough to recognize the kindness in the heat of her emotion.

Fingers are greasy black. Raised my handlebars and tightened Cohen’s chain for the ride into town. Wasn’t happy as I worked and a foul mood always makes a poor effort, nicks and scratches and bruised knuckles. Rubbed some sunscreen into yesterday’s burn so it doesn’t get worse on the ride.

Leaves in the sun without glasses like pointalism. Old Glory stiff in the breeze and a layer of yellow snow blankets everything.



I can see the sun bright through the stitching on our front windowshade, like it’s hemmed with light, little lines of glowing pinpricks.

The birds are in riot and started just before the sun around five, I can count at least six different calls, probably more. More faintly, I can hear the waves on the beach. The nose of the bigger ones crashing carries more than I’d figure. Also an occasional horn, I guess maybe the ferry to Cape May.

Bought a glass crock yesterday at the thrift store; two dollars. It has a loose fitting lid, also glass, an eagle embossed on either side, and raised ridges ringing the top and bottom which are lined with little even-spaced stars. It’s very patriotic. I was looking for a suitable container in which to begin a sourdough starter, and the choice between this American masterpiece and the plain old mason jar was no choice at all.

Sharaun couldn’t sleep again last night, think she was up until four. I went outside shirtless at eleven to watch the meteor shower. Tried waking Cohen, even scooped him up abd carried him outside, but he wasn’t having it. Instead Keaton joined me and we both stared up until our necks were sore.

Sometimes I just want to freeze mornings like this, keep the contentment that I feel in my heart and belly forever. I have done so little stopping in the past ten years, no time to just think, this trip has been like rain after a long drought.



Made it back to the sea today. Trying again, for maybe the fifth time, to read Ulysses. We’ll see how it goes.

Atlantic ocean Delaware. Last night in a sleepy Walmart parking lot near Hershey Pennsylvania. Lovely little campground on the dunes. Black tank was overfull on the way here, belching whiffs of sewage. RV feels perfectly level, hammock is strung out back between two trees.

Took a bloody mary to the beach, walked past an old WWII fort. Temperatures in the high seventies. Twenty-three stations over the air, good old westerns abd vintage sci-fi. Beautiful pink and orange sky at sunset, meteor showers tonight.

“Relaxed at a cellular level,” that’s what she said and I feel it to be true. I will it to be true when it might not be, for that matter.


up again to move forward

I want to learn to be removed from decisions.

Take my brain out of it. Discernment by feeling, heeding some tug that I can’t convey in pros or cons or spreadsheets. To sway with the leaning of my body, bones and blood and bile, to resonate forward and to follow the pull of my heart.

It’s shit-hard.

And people will make fun of you because it’s not logical and it’s irrational and what are you thinking you stupid hippie.

And it’s scary because I don’t know how to do it and I don’t even really trust it in my brain, it’s just a feeling, after all.

Sometimes you climb and you climb and then you’re at the top and then of course to move forward you have to go back down again. But maybe it’s a bowl, a caldera, and it’s up again in any direction to keep moving forward.

So which up feels right?



I think we are good guests.

We are aware of the space we consume, and endeavor to contain, or at least pick up after, our sprawl. We take the washing after receiving the charity of food, doing our best to divine what goes where in foreign cabinets and drawers, getting things right enough if not perfect.

Adopt the air of the house, drop-in with the routine and work to not upset, as much as us possible being in some other’s castle, the normal goings on. We stay clean, both body and occupied space. Listen 2:1 to talk, ask questions and draw-out stories wanting to be told instead of only regaling with our own.

Compliment the wine. Appreciate the local. Smile over shared interests, delicately unearthed via a fishbone path of light interrogation. Inquire after history of the things aland people and places. Genuine, all – not a putting-on.

In hopes that, upon leaving, it’s not just us that enjoyed our time.




Trying to go back to sleep but I’m awake. Went to bed too early, now I’m up. The light outside is grey light, all around, growing brighter. I enjoy watcyh it happen slowly, the day turning on.

It’s so comfortable in bed. I feel good. I smell myself and I smell good. Clean still from last night’s shower, but now with a night’s worth of my own smell on me for the better. Clean skin and the oils of being alive. Smells familiar, like my dad’s pillowcase when I was young.

The temperature is right. Colder than desirable if not abed, but perfect to be covered by the comforter and nestled into sheets and mattress. I like the way it all feels against my skin. Warm and covering while the light still builds outside. I’m looking for deer in the forest out the window. They were there yesterday evening.

Almost enough grey light now to read by. That’s what I’m going to do. Even before making coffee. Just stay here in bed and read.

Good morning.


I think maybe my notion of what this actually is changed, that’s why it seems like we’re partly misaligned.

At first, in the beginning, it was a journey to us both. A circular thing, long and purposely wandering yes but with a start and a finish overlapping in space. An out-and-back, a break.

Somewhere along the way, though, I got to feeling more and more like this is a becoming. Independent, then, of the route through time and space. Started thinking not only about the where but the why.

Not that the where and when aren’t amazing enough. They’re incredible experiences. But what’s happening with the why all the while? I’ve been trying to share that, but it’s that new twist on purpose that’s been challenging to convey, I think.

Yes, we’re moving through time and space, experiencing the world and each other. We are, too, moving through phases of self, the former motion through outside space driving internal movement of the mind and soul. Right?

I know a break is different than a change. One goes back, one might not. One is safe and the other is scary. Take a severe enough break though, a time-out long enough, and you might forget why some things seemed so important and remember why others should’ve been more.

Taking, then, the still dawning why, would we expect what will be to look anything like what was? When we’re changed and still changing for all the where and when we’ve experienced? Right?

I think not, but I’m not saying it well.