Zombie Will Think for Food

How quickly time flies: this time last week, I was revving up for Moving Day; now, I’m easing into my final day home with my family.

There’s a line from a Marilyn Hacker poem called “Nearly a Valediction” that I often come back to (read: accidentally plagiarize from) that perfectly sums up what I need during this gap period between my Old Life and my New Life: “trust / that what comes next comes after what came first.” Sometimes, when all of the touchstones of your life become uprooted, the only order that emerges is order, a peace that comes with chronology.

Well, here’s what came first: a few snapshots from my week at home.

Went to the beach with dad; beers, books, and sunshine were prominent themes.

More after the jump.

Did I ever really know the skies before moving to the south?

Met my Uncle Andy, Aunt Mo and family for dinner in Hilton Head. Met this brownie on my brother's plate. Mmmmm.

Now: what comes next. My dad and I will leave tomorrow and drive to Monroe, Louisana; Wednesday, we’ll travel to Dallas, where we’ll stop to spend some time with my Texas aunt and uncle; Thursday, we’ll wind up in El Paso (apparently, Texas is huuuuuge); and on Friday, I will meet Tempe, Arizona at last.

My goal is to keep up with you all through this blog (and my Twitter!) while I’m on the road, even if just with a few pictures from the vast middle of America we’ll be traversing. More pictures can be found on my brand spankin’ new flickr account (which is also linked on the sidebar to your left).

So keep an eye here, and think of me as Dad and I set out on our Most Excellent Adventure. In the meantime, I leave you with another poem because, well—I’m talking about hope, too:

where we are (for edward field)

i envy those
who live in two places:
new york, say, and london;
wales and spain;
l.a. and paris;
hawaii and switzerland.

there is always the anticipation
of the change, the chance that what is wrong
is the result of where you are. i have
always loved both the freshness of
arriving and the relief of leaving. with
two homes every move would be a homecoming.
i am not even considering the weather, hot
or cold, dry or wet: i am talking about hope.

—Gerald Locklin