"The grisly fact is that whatever space you intend to enter words into already has in it a multitude of words into infinition."

I'm feeling all kinds of sorrow and grief and worry and fear and excitement about leaving New York and, quite literally, heading for the hills. One of the things I'm thinking about is how to stay connected to the humans I love here, the humans who've become my humans, the friends who are my family.

While I have every intention of writing a million letters and postcards, of sending packages and making Skype dates, the reality is that I've chosen to leave this home and make another, and that with making a home comes work and life and new people and my sweetheart living close, and I probably won't be as connected to this former home as I'd like to be. So I am going to use this space as letters to Brooklyn (and Manhattan, obviously, and Philadelphia, and Boston, and Bellingham, and Illinois), and I am going to hope that some of you, my people, my family, check in with it once in awhile, though I hope even harder that you also check in with the actual me, and that we do send a million letters and postcards, that we do send packages and make Skype dates, that we stay close.

So, this is where you'll find me--one place, anyway. You'll also find me, in the next months, in Lake Champlain, in Chicago, in someone's car (mine or JRoss's). And come September, you'll find me in Gay City, USA, shopping at a co-op (!), walking my dog in the woods (and picking ticks off her stomach), and climbing apple trees--all while wearing Carhartts and wool sweaters and clogs. Yup. It's happening.