blogging is hard.

i write from texarkana. today we will be in austin for sxsw. the drive has been strangely relaxing and sometimes a lot more beautiful than i expected. i havent been down in this neck of the woods for years.

quickly, the gigs, in stupid brevity:

1. the saint, in NJ. i kinda liked this place more than i thought i would. the crowd was quite appreciative. it took a bit for me to get used to cigarette smoke again though.

2. starr hill w/ pela and rainer maria in charlottesville, VA. great club, great show all around. loved the other bands.

3. jammin java in vienna, va. another really nice show. very loose onstage.

duh, how boring, here is an entry i meant to post the other day:

so we drive past middle lo income houses, and the general; generic strangeness of america. i try to find the home between the lines, and i know its there, but not necessarily for everyone. i'm not sure if its there for me or not. this whole country scares me and comforts me at the same time: what comforts and frightens are not the same. the human element, except for what is close at hand, is not generally comforting at first thought but often ends of being so. nature, which at first seems like a source of eternal solace, can be indifferent and enormous and daunting. i watch the sky above the hours of sameness below and see change after change, and the vapor trails of the jets remind of the human industries that have claimed the skies as well, but they can be ignored. and in fact are largely ignored by the skies themselves. is the universe really indifferent? how do we know? it seems like it wont talk. maybe is a word i use more and more. maybe is the word of the day, the hour, the year and the time.

we have music to succor us. we have our friendships, which change all the time but good will keeps us constant in spite of the strangeness between all beings. it seems willingness, as usual, is the biggest part of success in all things. openness, willingness, and showing up, even if you feel like hell and are scared. be scared, but do it anyway. its kind of the essence of performance -- other people feed off your willingness to put fears aside and be open. art happens in a space of willingness. what art can happen when there is no willingness? it can happen but it ends up being an art of brute force.

what happens when you are willing but tired, or resigned or filled with sadness?

so we listen to cheerful musics, and outside the delaware landscape floats by, the van is loaded painfully full, flora dozes in the back.

who built that bridge? who are the captains of industry? why are they captains? who many places of refuge are there in the world? can every place be a place of refuge if you look at it right? yesterday i thought of the influence that places have on us -- much more profound than we think. every place we have been or visited or had any special connection to we become a part of. i believe the earth has a memory of our footsteps. every one, every uncertain shuffle, every determined army. memorized and linked to the blood spilled, the flesh that became the soil. i only know this, i am not certain of it.