The journals

The real ones. The backwards ones.
I buried them.
All over.
That’s the secret.
From Yellow Gap Trail in Pisgah National Forest to Abiquiu, New Mexico, I buried my notebooks.

enter THE DRIFT

“…train hoppers live a life of laggardly disorientation. They even have their own term for this life: the drift.”

A sense of aloneness

And for a little while I held onto my weird bond with the dead artist. But – (shockingly) – it turns out leaning on Leonardo DaVinci for reassurance of how totally and completely not-weird I was, was a terrifically bad strategy. And before long the instinctive childlike kinship I initially felt with Leonardo was a source of confusion and something almost approaching self-scolding in and of itself.
Because only DaVinci is DaVinci.