Cleaving Leaveland

I can tell you that it’s been really difficult to write for a while. I can tell you that working in a corporate job has taken over my life, and it’s still never enough at the same time. I can tell you that I’ve missed you, that I wonder if you’ve been waiting for me. I can tell you I’m here because of you. You’d like that?

I’ve been thinking a lot about travel, and what it means to represent each place you write about in an intersectional way. How to be a visiting white woman to these spaces, but tell their stories not only through my lens. Tasting the food without standing on the chair for perfect Instagram lighting. Building a relationship for 3 hours and then falling asleep Skyping New York anyways.

I’ve also been thinking about the spots I haven’t written about enough that I only spent days in. Because in conversation, New Mexico comes up more than Long Beach. New Orleans comes up more than Seattle. And Scottsdale, Arizona never comes up, almost.

I’ve been writing about this weird pull I’ve felt towards the water that’s guided me across this country. Burlington on Lake Champlain, Seattle on Puget Sound, Long Beach on the Port, and now the Bay Area. The calm I feel with it beside me, even without the sound of it. I don’t even need to hear it, maybe I just need that 6 ‘o clock chill. Maybe just the occasional glimmer of sun jumping off its edges when I’m heading to the doctor’s office or something dumb like that.

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been up to. I hope this counts for something.