I’m driving southeast on 24 towards Chattanooga, tendrils of cloud whispering and winding through matchstick trees, stretching in an unbroken blanket over undulating countryside. I have a couple days free, and the thought of getting the hell out of dodge for 24 hours fills me with a giddiness that fellow travelers know well.

Chattanooga’s been called the “Portland of the South,” which anyone who’s been to both knows is grossly inaccurate. But it is raining, and you’re likely to encounter people requesting hemp milk, so I suppose it’s not entirely without merit. My original objective of going rock climbing’s thwarted on account of the rain, so I’ll instead spend tomorrow brewerie hopping, finishing songs, and reminding myself that when the path seems hidden, or generally impenetrable, that is, on balance, a good thing - otherwise, any old asshole could find it.

Travel’s nourishing. Things that were once nebulous and frustrating are drawn into sharper focus - the verse really should go like THIS after all, the chorus should go like THAT, and she’s just not that into you and that’s ok because you like your interests and bizarro life and being benignly confounding’s just fine thank you very much.

And, it’s a reminder that your reality’s so much more than one place, one social circle, or one industry’s kooky politics. The world’s a big place, multi-faceted and nuanced, not unlike your subtle evolution within it.