I moved cross country twelve weeks ago but I am still unpacking.
Before that, it was planning and scheduling and cars being shipped and packers coming to pack us and saying goodbye to grandma and hotel rooms and a long road trip and quite a few to-do lists that didn’t include half of what I actually needed to do and finding a house in a new place and furniture and drivers licenses and tags for the car and getting used to nosy bitches in full makeup with monograms on their Lily Pulitzer blazers who definitely don’t mind their own goddamn business and say bless your heart when they finally get gone and conservatives and country roads with no shoulder and signals that swing in the wind from a wire (what the fuck is that?) and humidity and rain and thunder and actual fucking weather, who knew.
But somehow it all got done and here I am.
Back from my hiatus.
Two thousand one hundred and seventy three point nine miles from home. I’ve never been this far from good Mexican food. (That deserves its own sentence.) I’ve never lived in a place wihout the Pacific Ocean and the dry breezy afternoons with palm trees and red tile roofs and a sky so orange you’re certain that an earthquake is coming or maybe a fire. Or a police chase. Or a riot after the Lakers (or the Rams) win.
I’ve never been this far away from home, but I’m slowly starting to think that’s okay.
This blog is called bookstaves. Plural for bookstaff. A letter. A letter of the alphabet. A written character. A basic building block of language. And that’s what this blog is: letters and words and sentences and paragraphs about things of interest to me.
Going forward, this blog is now my long, extended love letter to home. And there will definitely be some book reviews and shitty poetry. This blog is meant to be a few things, and now I have the time to make it so.
Thanks for reading.