Big Palms Big Plans

At the end of May, I’m going to pack up whatever I haven’t thrown to the wind, and drive from Vermont to British Columbia; in the least direct way I can think of (via new orleans and some mountains). The current iteration of the plan involves Winnie and I living out of the back of the truck. Living the over idealized dream. Buying into traveler culture.

Win sitting in Dylan at our old place

But in all reality,
I don’t want to be that person.

nayyirah waheed wrote

you still want to travel to
you could not take a camera with you.

– a question of appropriation

Right, okay, so I will primarily be in the US. But have you noticed how fucking big the USA is? Does jumping in my car and driving away only contribute to some fucked concept of ‘wanderlust’- and just shove my privilege to do so down your throat? Can I bring any good from an admittedly selfish endeavor?

I’m definitely over thinking this.

A question of appropriation. A question of why we do the things we do. For approval? For validation? For affection?

Why in the world do I want to live out of my truck and not speak to anyone for days on end?

Maybe it’s just as easy to ask why want anything. Why do anything.

Ah fuck

I miss that feeling I had when I looked out over the vastness of the Rockies, driving through who knows where in Utah. I felt so small- more like an alveoli breathing with the world than a human driving around in a little metal death box.
That’s totally where self-realization begins. Or maybe ego death, I’m not sure.

I want to feel small.



I don’t know what I’m doing other than existing; and sometimes existing is enough of a struggle. I feel like a blurry photo of the only consistency I know sleeping next to my achey form is a summation of my own. If that makes sense. My bones don’t feel right, my muscles are stiff and unforgiving.

“Being apart is painful”

“I missed you”

The reminders that spill from her mouth, to tell me what is real.

“Listen to your body”

Listen to your body. This disconnect is where so much of your pain is coming from. Listen to your body, for she knows more than you.

Now, (in recent days) I sound like the spunion who whispers to crystals, who I am so put off by. I have less patience for trivial bullshit spouting from friends and family and lovers.  I want to crawl into a song, and forget the weirdness that comes with everyday infringement on my consciousness.

Don’t fucking tell me what to do.

I’m sad.
But that’s okay.