In words: Writer. Editor. Wonderer. Wanderer. Hungrier. Thirstier.
In two words: Text worker. Music junkie. Mystical proletariat. Frisbee enthusiast. Involuntary whistler.
In sentences: In the waning years of a most decadent decade, Josh Fleet was born in the hub of the American South. But Atlanta would only be home for a few years as the Fleets soon traced freeways down to Jacksonville, Florida. For a while there it was school, suburbs, summertime, school, suburbs, summertime, again and again, over and over, until one summer Josh went to sleep-away camp in the North Georgia Mountains and in the matter of a month the world suddenly became wide, weird and meaningful.
He discovered ecstatic friendship, musical potential and infinite nature. He came home. School, suburbs, summertime. He went back to camp. Deeper friendship, longer jams, higher hikes. Home, school, summertime. But no camp. This time, at 15, he got in a car with his dad and drove north to Tennessee for the second annual Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival. It took six hours and a sunrise to drive the final mile into the festival. The cars were endless. The tents were endless. The music schedule was endless. Josh wrote everything down in a notebook. He was writing a letter to friend at camp. Dispatches from Mecca, if you will. Between sets, a mud-covered reveler saw him writing furiously, asked if he was writing a book. “Maybe I am,” he responded.
Well, then it was back to home, school, suburbs, summertime and, again, camp. Friendships flourished. Inspiration ran rampant. More time passed. Home became Gainesville. School became college. Suburbs became dorm halls. Josh declared himself a journalism major. He began contributing to The SHPiEL and tried writing a couple album reviews for Satellite Magazine. He took philosophy and Hebrew and creative writing classes, wrote stories about American Jewry and began finding spelling errors on billboards and cereal boxes. He moved into a house with a couple Friends & Friends. More music, more writing, more grammar jokes. He became an editor for The SHPiEL and recruited friends to help out. He enrolled in the frantically feared Reporting course at UF. He was handed a press pass to seventh-annual Bonnaroo Music and Arts Festival. He got in a car and drove drove drove to the festival. Less traffic this time. Impossibly, more music. He interviewed Gainesville favorites Morningbell for Satellite Mag. He drove drove drove and, back home, turned the story in for his weekly original Reporting assignment. Thus, Josh became a music journalist.
Summer ended. Josh became Editor-in-Chief of The SHPiEL and tried to devise a way to sleep no more than five hours a night. He got deeper into the catacomb of J-school courses: bodies all around but a light appearing up ahead. In Israel, war started. Josh bought a plane ticket, flew from Jacksonville to Chicago to Frankfurt to Tel Aviv. He followed a father and son to Nachlaot in Jerusalem. The man took him to a house in that neighborhood. The friend of the man knew one a friend of Josh and took him to find that friend. Then, Josh had a place to sleep. The next day, he and another friend walked through the maze of Nachlaot looking for signs. They found one, still wet, no more than 20 minutes old. They called, spoke broken Hebrew, signed a lease and began gathering the things that make up a home. Josh documented his travels and published the accounts online for his friends at home to read. Thus, he became an international correspondent.
The earth has gone around the sun one whole time since Josh left that little Jerusalem nook. His Hebrew began eroding, but, working for Satellite Magazine one semester, his editing only got better. Summer again. Josh graduated from the University of Florida. Opportunity’s arms were crossed. He waited. Gainesville was hot. Life lessons drawled. He waited. Jacksonville was hot. Letter-by-letter, he built this site. He waited. The road was silent and stretched on. He got on a plane to New York City with a bag and a few friends on the other side. He arrived. Now, he waits.
