Friction
i moved into an old rv circa ’07. a bit rusty, far from optimized. pretty in the ways that don’t photograph well.
first few nights were a scavenger hunt with half-broken clues: battery, generator, propane-fed fridge, water tanks, pump—everything a system, everything a little opinionated. a dusty exterior bulb draining everything dry. hell, that lid over the battery box just wouldn’t sit still would it? welcome home, i guess.
meanwhile, silicon valley runs hot. not unlike wall street—velocity, chaos, batches of talent tapping out. some midnights, when another problem popped up, i’d find myself elbow-deep in a pump and ask, why? it was translucent in those moments. but let’s face it: becoming a handyman by necessity, learning the bones of this place? yippee ki yay, xxxx
we’ve engineered most ordinary frictions out of the day-to-day. the van hands them back, and with them, ritual. double-checking the generator before bed. thumbing the reed diffuser—coconut, citrus, amber. watching soft window-light smear across the page. reacquainting with the basic elements of life that make it awesome.
living in the van feels like calibration—ongoing, imperfect, alive. things turn, hiss, settle, wake. if the pump works tonight, great. if not, there’s a bucket and, well, my hands. try to sleep either way, unplugged and detached. lately, i’ve started to notice how the weather translates to the cabinet hinges. i picked up what the motors imply when they hum a little differently. good to feel stitched into the place i sleep.
i love the van as a vantage point that isn’t just higher, but closer. closer to the parts of me that don’t live on a screen. closer to the kind of freedom that is not needing everything. a trailhead, a quiet side street—what more can i ask for? let the wonders of the world come to me as air through a vent and sunlight across a page. let small problems teach me big patience.
now, i’m gonna lie back on my sofa bed—everything pulls double duty here—and breathe. it just rocks.