Somewhere in California, a fridge hums. Inventory: month-old takeaway; golf clubs (swung idly last night by car dealer cousin); two ice cream-stick bridges, able to endure 250 lbs of weight; greying fuzzy slippers, probably belonging to cousin's ladyfriend; game consoles.
In addition to all these things, time's material accumulation, there is my suitcase, a gift from my former mother-in-law: vintage and compact. I'm surprised it's so light, I was told here and there.
The same bright dresses and waffle-knit cream shoes I brought to London, minus rain parka. Under-pack, and pack only the clothes that make you feel amazing. (Myself, I go for bright and comfortable.) This is my only advice for travel, for living itinerant, without itinerary. Travel as light as you can, as light as a passport.
If you pick up something--a book, a new bright dress, something old and used and once-loved from the flea market--give something else away. Give it without looking back. Make sure you return as light as you left.
. . .
Crow lands in a tree. Crow-black like my hair in the winter, before the sun came and bleached it. I could eat a unicorn meat sandwich, that is how unreal I feel right now.