A sudden burst of energy came from out of nowhere. I bid goodbye to my safety-corner, and headed outside; bestowing blessings upon the stoner tree as I floated by.
I’ve lived in Bishop Arts, Dallas for over seven years now, longer than I’ve ever lived in one place. I still feel as though I know nothing about it. There’s two-fold reasoning:
- My wife has Celiac (Google It). We eat at home 99% of the time, but she’s an epic cook.
- I actually live in the historic Lake Cliff neighborhood. Bishop Arts is two blocks away, and it’s up a steep hill. I have sand in my hoo-haa. It’s impossible to find free parking; I refuse to pay for it, and I owe the parking lot company money. No shame in my game.
Yes, I busk there, and I shop at Christmas, AND I’ve eaten at the same three restaurants on repeat, but I’ve never truly experienced the neighborhood in a positive, extensive way. I’ve never slowed down enough to live in the moment. I want to change that.

Currently, I’m sitting on the corner of Bishop & Davis enjoying one of the best damned burritos I’ve had in a bit. Not since catting around Long Beach, or street walking whatever was nearest my hotels in Pasadena. Ironically, it feels very SoCal in the moment, sun on my back; low humidity with a cool breeze. If I concentrate, I might could fool myself. There’s been a fatal stabbing and hit and run here in the past couple of months. California is an obviously contageous state of mind.


My eyes off the food and back on the mission, I turn the corner. As soon as I leave Davis onto Bishop, I’m in Queens. Well, a sort of high-end Queens now; gentrification is everywhere. The bookstore that sold my wares has left, being replaced by some alcohol-infused frozen yogurt, or some other intoxicant to blur the views of the masses, one sip at a time.
I move into the record store like a spy dodging no one. What I mean is, spies don’t get in trouble anymore, so they don’t care. They look like baseball-dad golfers. Don’t you watch the news? They’re like, “Hey, you…get your damned hands off of her,” and slap their naughty wrists, and they, indeed, get their damned hands off of her; whoever she or they may be.


I special ordered the wife a little something for the upcoming birthday, even though we never buy each other holiday-specific gifts. It’s just random stuff throughout the year we call “Ani-valen-birth-mas”.

Twin Oaks, Texas is at war! Taking place immediately after the Far From Home events in New York City, Katie Liberman has returned to rescue her birthplace from the clutches of her nemesis. As the paranormal battle of North vs. South rages in the shadows, the tiny town must decide to fight against the odds or become one with the darkness. Blood will be shed and only one will survive as the final battle of the Home Series concludes.
I cut through an alley on the way home, and I’m in Chelsea or high-end Williamsburg. I grab a black covfefe and a bagel to go, fist bump my barber, and I’m headed home. The fact I can pseudo-travel to each coast via a delectable food-ferry and fine memories, all within distance of the shoe-leather express, is astonishing. If it’s Heaven, then it’s as heavenly as I’ll allow it to be; I don’t want to get caught up in semantics. I can make it all turn to Hell with the flip of a mindset. But, why?

I walked away from home with no clear destination, and I returned without deadline on an oddly beautiful, “Dallas-False-Fall” day. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve adventured, or at least my microscopic, adventure-esque version of such, but I know it wasn’t here. Probably New York, Portland, or even Seattle, when I resembled someone else entirely.
Still not cool enough outdoors for busking on a weekend evening; playing music makes you sweaty…if you’re doing it right.
Preach truths, toke jokes, and shoplift Amazon.
I’m right by me. If I squint hard enough, or take off my glasses, it’s all I’ve ever wanted the last chapter to be.















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