Stasis makes me antsy. As a consequence, I’ve cycled through a lot of different houses over the past few years. Rather strange houses. I’ve lived in everything from a tacky condominium in Boca Raton, a renovated bowling alley apartment in Fayetteville, a secluded log cabin in the middle of the Ozark Forest, an old terraced flat overlooking the Atlantic, to my present house, a somewhat bland townhouse with a view to the cemetery across the road, where the tombstones are so close I can tell you from my living room window the date Edward Sullivan died (Feb 18, 1932). Read More