Woke up in New Orleans a little hung over, a little hot, on an unfamiliar couch, and felt ready to dig in and explore the city. Feeling quite excited I took a shower, made plans to meet back up with my host later in the day, and set off to relive all the awesomeness I had found in the city on my last trip and find something new. For breakfast I went to Cafe Du Monde in the French Quarter for beignets and chicory coffee. Sure it's a little touristy, but it's super delicious. I found a bench in the shade around Jackson Square, and savored my meal while drinking in the scene. Local artists hang their wears on the wrought iron fence that surounds the park. I checked out their work, and dearly wished I could afford a piece or two. I watched them paint, but I also watched them socialize, critique each others pieces, offering help, and just shooting the shit. The whole vibe inspired me to be creative as well. The town seemed filled with fantastic people. I wanted to be fantastic too.

3am, the witching hour When self-doubt oozes through The maze of fissures in my skull Pickling my brain in the brine of Stifled fears, shivering in unease A slow poison that drips down My nerves in acidic rivulets I feel myself disintegrating Explosive protein destruction My heart, the great betrayer The fleshy organ, is rotting The smell: saccharine fermenting Fills my nostrils with iron and lust My eyes close to shut out the void Seemingly safe behind barred lashes Still, the insides of my eyelids play All my greatest follies on repeat My flaws tattooed on cells and fibers Neurons and retinas dyed scarlet There are no hands, but My own to wield weapons There are no tongues, but My own to tell lies There are no beds, but My own to find respite in Insomnia, conscious nightmare … Finally found rest round 5am Switched off to sleep at thunder's clap A few hours tortured, anxious slumber Then waking slick with sickly sweat Like the window

View Larger Map Woke up feeling awesome and refreshed after a night splurged on a motel room. Took my car to be serviced, and got on the road by 11am. I made good time, flying down a straight west shot of I-10, dodging 18 wheelers while chatting on the phone with dear, and far-flung friends I hadn't been able to catch up with when I was working 60 hour weeks. Thanks to a convenient time zone change, I reached my destination by 4pm. The only tent-friendly campground near Pensacola was actually in Navarre Beach, one town east. It was expensive, but lovely, a standard private establishment primarily catering to the massive RVs that most Americans do seem to favor over tents. There were clean showers, a pool, a dock, and a water front visible from my spot. I even had my own water spigot and electrical outlet. It was strangely and laughably ritzy compared to the rustic public campgrounds I usually frequent. I decided to settle in and get my full pleasure out of it. Made camp, left some

View Larger Map I try and give my road trips a rough outline as to route and schedule, but I also like to leave a good amount of room for alternative plans. Sometimes I just wake up, and realize I'm done with a place. It doesn't feel right, and it's time to move on. When I'm at home I can't indulge in these sorts of impetuous moods, but on the road I can blow with my whims. Tuesday, I woke up and felt antsy. Something was wrong with the atmosphere, a storm was brewing, and I could tell it was time to move. I packed up, said goodbye, bought a few provisions, and headed south for the Florida Keys. I drove from Miami all the way to Key West without stopping. It was a beautiful drive, all clearing skies, iridescent waves, and island adventure. Have you ever visited a chain of islands and longingly started out as they receded into ever smaller gems? Perhaps it fills you with a strong and unrequited emotion? You want to follow the islands, but lack a boat, and a boat woul

After months on the north country’s roads A mad dash westward to chase the sunset Finally home and settled in the dawn lands Settled in the hometown, main street, swing of things Comfortable routine of things, familiar since childhood Living like I’ll never have to grow up Reveling in the freedom of free time To drink with friends until the sun rises To run the streets and play the woods To hear east coast sounds, cricket calls To break bread at my father’s table Living like the long summer evenings of when I was five Living like the late starry nights of when I was nineteen Youthful adventure in perpetual timelessness Even now as I write this in weekday afternoon leisure Feet dangling in the white clay creek Dusty sneakers to my right Patched backpack to my left Still scribbling away in a journal Cradled in the crook of a tree As I was taught in fourth grade Sit, write, think, sit, write, think Reminiscing on the trails of June conquered Rocky mountains climbed, deserts discovered Tun

I wrote all day Sunday. It just flowed out of me. I was like a woman possessed. Carlos had gone home for the week, and given me the keys to his dorm room. I sat basking in the chilly air conditioning of his tiled, efficient room, feeling like an impostor student and shut-in, but mostly reveling in the freedom of typing away. The writers block that had caged me for the last several months seemed to have blown away like a bad storm and been replaced by endless rays of light. Thank you unemployment, random adventure, and hours of mindless driving. Success! In the evening I had planned to meet up with Carlos at his parent's place in downtown Miami. Around 8pm, he called me with the simple enigmatic message to come on down, leave my car with the valet, prepare for a nice dinner at 10pm, and not worry about money. Confused and amused, I met him at his parent's posh new condo, past modern art and fountains, halfway up to the 16th floor. There among the cities' high-rise lights by