Binderama60for60

This post might be better enjoyed on the wordpress site.

I’ve been a bit of a wanderer. I’ve lived in a number of places around the country, usually for just a few years in each. Rarely was there a reason for moving away, other than feeling restless and bored. Plus, I liked the challenge and reward that comes with establishing roots–albeit shallow roots defined by things like finding a reliable grocer, decent bar and cheap dry cleaner. And memorizing a new zip code.

I had moments of this recurring reflection all my adult life: Am I moving to escape or to discover? Am I moving because I’m alone? Or am I alone because I keep moving? When I considered that conundrum 20+ years ago, I thought it’d hit on something novel, unique. But Mary recently disavowed me of that notion; it’s a thing, apparently. There are lots of wanderers out there.

There was a time I could fit everything I owned–my stuff–into my Honda Civic. I could pack, load and be on the road in a matter of hours. I romanticized that I could leave any time under cover of night, like I lived some life of intrigue. No more. For one, I don’t stay up that late. And the last time we moved is the last time we’ll move. I swear. Until the next time. But I think I’m good, for now.

Each place has contributed to my life story, from frat houses to boat houses, crowded dormitories to suburban apartments, sweaty city tenement walk-ups to air-conditioned places with elevators, beach houses to flop houses. Ok, maybe not flop houses; what is a flop house anyway? If it’s a hovel with a bunch of mattresses on the floor, then yeah, BTDT. I haven’t lived near a Waffle House or a Wegmans in years.

I made great friends and memories along the way. I also weathered some hard times, desolate phases and lonely years. All self-inflicted. Truth is, it’s hard to keep moving. Until I met Mary though, it was harder to stay.

Cataloguing the many moves for this installment of 60|60 would likely have turned up some dry content, so I turned again to A.I. to make it more compelling. My prompt included most of the places I’ve lived, along with a few details, and I asked for it to churn out an epic poem scribed in iambic pentameter. I fussed with it afterward, so it’s now a bit more of random pentameter.

And then, for good measure, I had A.I. (Suno) turn this journey into a song. Several songs actually.

Come with me now as we retrace nearly every single place I have ever received mail.

I was born in Ann Arbor right on cue,
‘Midst the storied turf of the maize and blue.
In Northville’s burbs, I spent my early days,
I pooped, I slept, I crushed my baby phase.

Then south to where the Civil War was “won.”
Vienna, V-A, now ain’t that fun.
On Lewis Street I grew from tot to man,
I went to school, did my chores, made a plan.
My childhood laughter echoed through the trees,
This home I knew but left upon the breeze.

A summer job just north of Richmond town,
Truck stop trailer park’s where I bedded down.
As Captain Caveman, my days were full of rage
They even paid me the minimum wage.

At JMU, in Kappa Sig I thrived,
Our youthful nights with dreams and joy contrived.
Where girls, beer and jams came and went so fast,
A reckless youth too wild to ever last.

An internship at Disney, what a lark,
To Snow White Village: another trailer park.
We worked by day, 12-packs of Busch by night,
I learned how dreams and labor both take flight.
Orlando’s heat fell heavy on my dome,
‘Long Kirkman Road my restless soul did roam.
So young and tan with raging inner fire,
I lived amidst enchantment and desire.

New York called out with dreams of breaking wide,
A walkup way up the Upper East Side.
The streets roared loud, the sidewalks hummed with life,
A city sharp as love and cold as knife.

Most Vegas nights I’d slowly lose my shirt,
In smoky bars with free drinks, miles of hurt.
The cards would dance, the credits mostly fell,
A fleeting thrill—a dream as dark as hell.

To Santa Monica, the tides pulled strong,
Where sun-kissed waves would hum a distant song.
Oh what a place to feel so high alive,
Ne’er crossing east of the 405.
The sunsets burned in gold, then slipped away,
Like all the towns that never let me stay.

To Silicon Valley: in-no-va-tion,
And Sunnyvale’s nerd-geek congregation.
Yet even here, where futures rise and race,
I found no rest—just one more fleeting place.

To Nashville then, where songs and sirens blend,
The city’s pulse beats loud and without end.
Guitars cry out like voices from the deep,
And neon burns, it keeps me from my sleep.

In Scottsdale now where sun and cactus meet,
It’s hot as hell, a hellishly dry heat.
We call this home, at least for half the year,
A foodie’s dream, so phat and full of cheer.

Lake Michigan breathes clean on summer days.
The waves they pound, blue skies beam sunshine rays.
With water, woods and dunes that stretch so far,
Galactic nights to catch a falling star.
The winds recall the ghosts of those who’ve passed,
Their whispers woven through history so vast.

And though I’ve roamed through lands both far and wide,
No city holds me, nor the restless tide.
Each place has forged the path of where I’ve been,
Yet home’s not a place. Home is found within.