At the edge of the Pacific, I still think about cornfields.
In the East and the Midwest, it was the same: corn, cows, wood, and lakes. I’m jostled by the murky feeling I get when I look at the Pacific. I remember the house on water, the woods, the open meadows of another place.
At the end of the day, we just want something open: sometimes, a page.
I’ve taken to page again. I’m looking for a sentence, but I can’t past my stomach, past the baby that will be here in eight weeks time. I do need to start looking past the states between here and there; over a year into California and I am upstate NY through and through, but I’m making something that is utterly not, something that is entirely new and not from or of anywhere in particular yet.