Freckles.

We're driving through Utah where the river runs red from the desert earth. We're some 400 miles from home, and still have so far to go. I'm listening to sad songs as the rocks become castles and the clouds hang lower than ever. Then it's Jack's Mannequin in Arizona and days later we're downing skinny lattes going 80 on the interstate toward Nevada.

I've been thinking about stars lately.

On our trip out to California, we camped at the Grand Canyon for three nights. When I was eight years old we hiked the Grand Canyon and stayed at the Bright Angel Campground at the bottom. Seven miles in and ten miles out in 120 degree July heat. It was just Mom and Dad and I, and some of the greatest memories of my life. At night, we would open the flap on top of the tent and just lay under the stars in our tee shirts and talk in a whisper.

And here we were ten years later, and I've still never seen so many stars as you can there. The nights are hot and the Milky Way runs wild across the heavens, a sheer stream of gossamer illuminating the deep blackness. The stars are overwhelmingly numerous, dizzying in a way you cannot imagine unless you have witnessed them.

Andrew McMahon, arguably my favorite musician, has always had a preoccupation with the sky and with stars. In almost every song, a reference to the sky or stars or space can be found. He has Van Gogh's Starry Night tattooed on his forearm, and said once in an interview that at the top of his bucket list was to go to space. I love it.

And now I'm all moved in and comfortable, two weeks into classes. California is beautiful and the mild weather, overabundance of longboarders, and towering palm trees make it feel like paradise. Lilacs and roses grow alongside my building on one side, and their fragrance pervades the air at all hours.

But I don't see stars. Some nights I only want the stars. I want Orion's Belt in the winter and the Big Dipper in the summer and I want to know that the universe is expansive beyond my wildest dreams. I want to see the stars glow and imagine that they are God's freckles. Or the watermelon seeds He spat out. I want to talk to Andrew McMahon. I want to know how big the biggest star in all existence is. Why are all the poets and songwriters and romantics so obsessed?

This home is new to me.

I've been thinking about stars lately.