Saturday, February 14, 2009
I'm lying in a white bed, staring out the white window to where Tacoma unspools down to the water. I see townhouses, a tangle of roads and boats, a gargantuan wooden dome pressed against a square of sky. To reach this bed, I've been traveling since 2:30 AM PST; in six more hours, ten blocks away and on four hours' sleep, I will play the best concert I can. Everyone in the audience will be a stranger. I will be unable to make out anyone's face in the dark. Finally it will come down -as it always comes down- to me fumbling backward toward some specific sound, some white, clear whisper I've heard before -and again, and again- but just can't seem to call home.