So, I’m homeless.
I guess that’s where I should start.
Those are the opening lines of my Journal of Impossible Things. I’ve already filled nine pages. I’ll probably excerpt it here from time to time. Some of it might be quite personal.
I’ll be 50 years old this year. My birthday is the first of May. I no longer have a place to live to pay for, my kids are both grown and on their own… I have no strings anymore, no attachments holding me anywhere. I haven’t ever seen so much of the country. This may be my last chance to see New Orleans, Big Bend in Texas, Big Sur in California, San Francisco, Mount Rushmore, Mount St. Helens, Yellowstone, Yosemite, The Grand Canyon, and countless other places.
So here I go.
I’ll probably wind up dead in a gutter in Cousinfuck Alabama somewhere.
Some of it will probably be mundane.
Nobody sells postcards anymore.
I drove all over today, spent four hours looking for a postcard to mail her. I wound up driving to Peddler’s Village, a half hour away, to find one.
Someone somewhere might find it of interest to read, and I may use it to publish a book with the photos I take along the way. I guess we’ll see.
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