Last night after I flew into Phoenix,; I drove up to the studio to catch up on some work. It’s pretty spooky to go to the studio at midnight. The studio is on the site of the old Phoenix Botanical Gardens, so there is lots of dark open spaces covered with cactus that look like monsters.

After two hours of rapid-fire work, I took the lonely drive back to my house. Not even the radio DJs are up that late. My mailbox was layered with mail from the past week. I loaded it into my arms like I was carrying in firewood. I dumped my suitcase on the garage floor and lifted my clothes into the washing machine. I stepped inside to open mail and pay bills.

My house has become unfamiliar. In the summers, it’s a base-camp more than it is a home. It’s where I go to prepare for my next expedition.;;; Most people are always making their way back to their home where everything is familiar and comfortable. I don’t have that. Home is where the plane lands.

I’ve been traveling at this intensity for four years. Fame is passing, so I need to do what I can when I can. I was raised in rural Georgia where people lived deliberately slow lives. But I’ve forgotten what it is like to live a life without ever-present urgency. I’m trying to be like Peter Parker, a normal guy who is trying to make the world better. It’s not always comfortable to be Spiderman.

So now I’m at 15,000 feet listening to John Mayer:

“Someday a fly, some days I soar. Someday I’m big, someday I’m much more. Because I’m bigger than my body gives me credit for.”