July 2009 Archives

I am sitting at the desk in my hotel room at the dana, on north state street in chicago. by far, the swankiest place I've ever rested my head, including places my parents have splurged on when I've accompanied them to exotic destinations (and by "exotic" I mean florida. and cabo. and DC.) it's almost 2:30a chicago time, but I don't know what zone it is specifically - central I think? anyway.

my haircut is all fresh but it's currently whacked-out from mostly dried sweat, my feet are about to fall off, I haven't eaten anything today besides nuts, I've had one quad and three red bulls, and I just saw a life-altering wrens set at schubas. I really, really should eat, I even caved on the minibar earlier (hence the nuts), but it just seems like too much work. showering seems like too much work. it's been so bonkers, the week leading up to coming here, all the prep, all the arranging, and then wham! chicago. suddenly it's all so very seamless.

after the ride in from midway on the subway (L? el? train? whatever.) every one since has been old hat. the streets seem familiar, a cross section of manhattan, pioneer square, and pike/pine. lots of rich kids, a handful of hipsters, and some long-lost new friends at the club, where I may wind up still pulling together a written interview tomorrow.

I think I have to go sleep now. I can always ask for clean sheets. but yeah -- kevin pulled me up on stage (no small feat, in a short-ish skirt without much give) with stephanie and some dude and said, "play the black keys. any ones." and every few moments we'd hit the right notes, and it would be fucking magical. they played about 6-8 new songs, everything ever off the meadowlands, and even came back for a second encore with 'made enough friends' ... I almost fell right through the floor. schubas is tiny, tiny, tiny. the pictures are amazing. I can barely see.

tomorrow: breakfast and coffee, I think wicker park or something? writing, walking, sightseeing, the soaking up of things, the toughening of summer feet, and maybe some bunny bios. and another wrens show. and then more flying. and then austin. and then glen hansard and patrick and everything after, and then soon I'll be home.

from the land of bamboo floors and simulated-downpour showerheads,
*victoria

portland has come and gone, and the squinting square of sunlight on the front porch that felt like an album cover has faded out into the back of a pile of letters in my mind. I couldn't get the photograph to come out clearly enough, to make it look how it felt: all sitting there on a couch, kind of like a leathery seat from an old car, where it used to be all one piece and nobody wore seatbelts. slouched down, feet up on the railing, talking about love, and old carter family records, and college. realizing that we don't know each other very well, and how the facts make us better friends. walking, and walking, and walking, burning inland portland sun burning my shoulders sweat drip persistently into my eyes. the people were nice, and some were forced ironic, and there were snapshots of soft couches gauze curtains in the hot breeze, flowers on tabletops, shiny kitchen sinks.

I really got to see the unromanticized side of touring life: the stringless, follow-your-heart bliss often accompanied by lonely-in-a-full-room-full days. like sleeping on a couch, when you have to wait for the party that goes until 4am to stop, since it's not your bed, even though right then it's your bed. these pieces are blurring together with the curtains in my new apartment, and the skydiving, and the movie scenes of mountains and how I practically found God strapped to a strange man at a hundred and thirty miles an hour. curtains, curtains, pictures, picture. shag carpets, soaring hearts, someone else's family and the noises in their walls and doors and how the kitchen floor felt under my feet and how the ceramic tile was smooth under my fingertips until the breaks of rough grout, glass and sandpaper. love and rockets.

I've got to get back to work.

when love beckons to you, follow him
  though his ways are hard and steep.
and when his wings enfold you yield to him,
  though the sword
  hidden among his pinions
  may wound you.
and when he speaks to you believe in him,
  though his voice may shatter your dreams
  as the north wind lays waste the garden.

for even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify you.
even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning.
even as he ascends to your height
  and caresses
  your tenderest branches
  that quiver
  in the sun,
  so shall he descend to your
  roots
  and shake them
  in their clinging to the earth.

like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto himself:
  he threshes you to make you naked,
  he sifts you to free you from your husks
  he grinds you to whiteness.
he kneads you until you are pliant;
  and then he assigns you to his sacred fire,
  that you may become
  sacred bread
  for God's
  sacred feast.

all these things shall love do unto you
  that you may know the secrets of your heart,
  and in that knowledge become a fragment of life's heart.
but if in your fear you would seek
  only love's peace and love's pleasure,
  then it is better for you
  that you cover your nakedness
  and pass out
  of love's threshing-floor,
  into the seasonless
  world
  where you shall laugh,
  but not all of your laughter;
  and weep,
  but not all of your tears.

love gives naught
  but itself
  and takes naught
  but from itself.
love possesses
  not
  nor would it be possessed;
  for love
  is sufficient
  unto love.
when you love you should not say,
  "God is in my heart,"
  but rather,
  "I am in the heart of God."
and think not you can direct the course of love,
  if it finds you worthy,
  directs your course.

love has no other desire
  but to fulfill itself.
but if you love,
  and must needs have desires,
  let these be your desires:

to melt
  and be like a running brook
  that sings its melody
  to the night.
to know the pain
  of too much
  tenderness.
to be wounded
  by your own understanding of love;
  and to bleed
  willingly
  and
  joyfully.
to wake at dawn with a winged heart,
  and give thanks for another day of loving;
  to rest at the noon hour
  and meditate love's ecstasy;
  to return home at eventide
  with gratitude;
  and then to sleep
  with a prayer for the beloved
  in your heart
  and
  a song
  of praise
  upon your lips.

I think Connecticut Victoria would get mad at me if I stayed home this weekend. You know, all "Well, Tom Brosseau invited me to a party in Portland, and I had a free ride with a coworker who just happened to be going that way, who also asked me to go skydiving -- but I decided to stay home and put together my desk. And you know, like, get my laundry done, and stuff. I'm really glad I didn't go. Look how clean these floors are!"

Right. I would seriously just about fist-fight myself. Besides, as it stands I think we'll be back by the early afternoon on Sunday, leaving plenty of time for varying levels of sloth and domesticity.

From somewhere up above ten thousand feet,
*Victoria