i write for inner peace.
The object was to move.
So I spun: north, west, south, and east, searching for my center of gravity.
My first stop was where the road ceased to keep going: a ferry terminal in Seattle. The end of a decade-long marriage era was covered up by the fog rolling across the bay. Up there, departure took on the charm of a final flourish. Autumn afternoons ended early, and the promise of good coffee kept your eyes open in the rain.
The object was to move higher, so I flew North for the summer.
The next stop was a train platform in uptown Chicago, amid the silhouette of rooftops back-lit by neon marquees. It was slam poetry night. I met a girl who I began writing about, the kind that smiled at you to be polite and never wrote back. I rode the Red Line back to an empty hotel room, invisible as the wind they named the city after.
The object was to move together, yet I found myself drifting further apart, step by step, no matter where I went next.
I drove to a church in D.C. for a spring wedding, stumbled out of the reception hall into a back alley bar named “Sovereign”.
I froze on a bus stop bench in Milwaukee, staring at the Christmas lights that hung in the dead trees of an abandoned park.
I dragged my baggage in circles through crowded airports, looking for my gate.
The object was to keep moving. I got nowhere.
As a weeknight dinner conversation, I’d remind my daughter of the beaches we left behind in Florida.
We’d sit by the window of our 4F apartment in Raleigh while the spaghetti got cold.
"Look how far away the sidewalk is from here," she’d comment.
We’d point at the tail lights of a passing car as if its glow was worth following.
I’d tell her that shiny objects vanished like the moon if you looked for too long.
I dreamed of moving in all directions, eyes shut to how the lights inside a home revealed everywhere I could hope to go.
The Move Unseen
A blog for magic.