It’s been awhile since I’ve had the leisure to sit and think about what we’re doing. Something’s happening, that’s for sure. We’ve been casting things off—the house in New Orleans, Sea Wolf in Moorea—moving betwixt and between, through the liminal state where transformation happens. We’re camped out at the moment in St. Petersburg, Florida, around the corner from Adam’s brother Chris’s place. Our version of going north for the summer. White birds with curving orange beaks and wise eyes peck at the lawns. A silent man stands smoking outside the thrift store downtown, the smoke making a little world of respite around him. I can smell bacon frying. An old woman circles the park waving an umbrella, maybe someone who’s been here a long time, gotten addled by too much sun. Ratty palm trees, deco stucco, tanned brassy women driving Camaros all feel familiar, like a postcard of a place I’ve never been. It feels right to be here, waiting for a sign.
Many thanks to all those who have been hosting us and hooking us up with places to stay across the Southeast these past couple of months, as we’ve been wheeling and dealing, writing, childraising, refining our theory of the rooted vagabond.