Up and at em’ and on the road at an early hour. I’ve got some long stretches of the country to cross today.

An old friend lives in Las Cruces New Mexico, which falls directly across my line of travel. I moved to Wisconsin when I started sixth grade, so keeping in touch with someone from my times tables and kickball days in Pittsburgh feels like a gift.

I shoot her a late text because I’ve lost all sense of time, dates and realities out here on the road. Real people who don’t live in vans have lives, but she gets back to me when I’m about thirty miles past her town. Whip a U-turn because when will I be in New Mexico ever again?

We played soccer in grade school and raised a little hell. Shooting bb-guns off the deck and beating the crap out of each other with Hulk Hands (okay fine I usually got my ass kicked.) Flash forward as I pull up to New Mexico State University, where she assistant coaches for the girls’ soccer team. Good to see ya Jessie.

Head out for sushi because I’m obsessed, completely obsessed. I talk about my writing and my travels. Jess talks about soccer and school, whilst giving up on the chopsticks and making her sushi finger food.

One of the most positive and ambitious people I’ve ever known, never without a smile. I can’t believe we get to catch up like this; on the opposite side of the country from where we both began our lives, in what feels like a different life. We’re both so easy going though, it’s like no real time has passed. Good luck Jess, until we meet again.

Back on the road before dusk and I try to log some long, hard won hours on this endless highway. Not much to be said nor felt at this hour. Too tired to write or think or sing, only keep the pedal level against the worn soles of my sneakers and chase my own headlights awhile longer.

Fighting off sleep with the last dregs of a Monster and loud music. Nahko, Greenday, ACDC, something with a little grit. I’m lightyears away when I see lights up ahead. It takes me fifty yards nearer to read the printed lettering above the highway pass. Border Patrol.

No surprise here when they open up and check my giant white rapey van that I’m driving alone, at midnight near the Mexican border. Searching for possible kilos of that China white and or los drugas ilegales. I stand behind the van and shoot the shit with the patrol while they do a quick once over. Dust off their hands and send me on my way.

What fun. Red eye some last hours, pull over around four a.m. Hop in the back of the van which I parked in a suburbia cul-de-sac reminiscent of Texas Chainsaw Massacre and pass the hell out.

Wake early and drive. Gotta blow this Popsicle stand real fast. Takes me the better part of the day to get to Dallas. Traffic is hell and people drive like maniacs. Get nearer to the city and coast endless loops and reroutes and my God I’m sick of this drive. Texas delivering frustration so far in spades.

Ten years later… pull up to Angela’s apartment and launch into instant crisis management mode. Somehow her car got towed and she’s only got an hour and a half to get it out of impound. Ready? Break!

We embark on a mad dash in the van across town, cashier’s check, approve this and that, on hold for-ev-er, funds transfer aaaaaand we’re too late they’re closed. Poor Ang, we shall compensate with libations.

Her boyfriend Jay works at this cool restaurant and we sit out on the patio and start into it immediately. She’s the ribbing sort, jokes and eff you’s, and all sarcasm. Love her to death.

Jay brings us a heavenly, chocolatey cupcake surprise gifted from the Gods on Pegasus’ wings straight from Mount Olympus’ kitchens to our taste buds to cheer us up after the car fiasco. Carry on and on, home and restart tomorrow. It’s been a long day. Sleep well, even when Jay plays drunken guitar outside on the patio after he returns home from work at four in the morning. The sound is mostly soothing despite the occasional dissonant or slipped, tipsy chord.

Wake rested on the couch, Angela off to work early so I’ve got the apartment to myself for the day. Familiar Starbucks drill as I ride into town and snag some internet.

I’ve done this ritual so many times now, so many places. Familiar as my own reflection is this routine. Though my reflection now hardly resembles that freshly untethered girl who left Shangri La for the California coast weeks ago. A darker skinned girl with longer, sun bleached hair stares back, wilder and more visceral than the original; that outline which much resembled the rippling reflection of a thought or a hope unfulfilled. Now turned nearly whole.

Walk the walk, write the talk and type it out. Flashback to the visitor center parking lot with faint internet connection in the redwoods, typing away in Delilah’s cab. Or South Lake Tahoe, when I’d come down from the mountain pass to refill my water jugs and scribble notes – sipping on an iced chai, one shot of espresso. Or in the jam-packed Starbucks on Hollywood Boulevard, salt and sweat from the dry heat sticking to my cooling skin in the busy little shop, baristas bustling to tackle the morning coffee rush hour.

Finish my scribblings and head back to the apartment to play my six string. I’ve been so invested in the writing and the living as of late that I’ve nearly forgotten the music. Jay is home and he spray paints planets and the vibrant colors of the universe on particle boards on the patio, smoking cigarettes all the while as I sing in the background, honing my own craft. Vocal cords reveling within the lyrics, rolling them around on my tongue, strumming soft chords and picking notes with my fingers.

Angela gets home and Jay goes back to work. Take on the car fiasco round two and we manage to get it back this time. Hoorah and celebrations and a few more libations. We decide to go to some sort of bluegrass/country fest and get our Texas on.

Except, it’s awful. We get there, grab some random Mexican food, and join the audience on the soft grass in front of the mainstage. The band seems gun-shy, like this is their first middle school talent show. Everyone sits quietly and no one dares dance, even when the band occasionally drifts from their melancholy, sad country songs to something with just a little bit of pep.

We watch the sky darken awhile instead, and what a beauty it is, stars ablaze in a nightshade blue. When neither of us can take the somber scene any longer, stand up, dust off our jeans and head on out.

Rally at Jay’s work instead. These Texas accents though, yeesh. I try not to giggle every time someone (namely Jay) says ‘Lil darling.’

Head home and party on Wayne. Great to see you guys, seriously. 😉 Texas is kind of stupid but you two aren’t so thanks for having me! I’m spinning and all smiles as we wear the night thin and finally abandon our Miller Lite tallboys for our beds. Drift off to sleep, wake briefly when Jay shakes my arm gently round’ four a.m., home from work again and inspired enough to play me his latest composition. Tipsy lilt against his drawl but the guitar tune is sweet and haunting and beautiful and I tell him so, in my zombie, autopilot sleep mode as I drift back into my dreamscape of oceans and mountains and woods and a girl with wings.

Up early and time I was headed onto my last real stop on this crazy train. New Orleans. My parents lived there for a spell and said it was wild. Wild has always been my calling card.
I’ve only got one night to spend there, as I’m running out of rocket fuel in my wayward traveler’s boots. But, it’s Saturday, and the day has only just begun.