Day Twelve

Wilmington, North Carolina.

The last few days have been hard. So hard. Once we get to a place and we start having something to do, it's fine. I can operate. I can load equiptment and even be social, polite, friendly. There's much to appreciate on the trip - the shifting landscapes, the generous people, the voyaging. But tomorrow will be the anniversary of the day my mother died. And the closer the day gets the more my heart constricts.

It's the driving that's the worst. Hours of sitting still. I can only read for so long in the car before I feel ill. After that I can only stare at the road. I turn my face to the window and the tears just keep flowing and I cry as quietly as I can.

So far no one has asked me how I am, or even what's wrong, and I can't bring myself to talk to them. I can't imagine sitting down in a diner over eggs and saying, "By the way, my mom died on this day last year." I mean, they should know - they were with me. But I feel utterly alone. The people I would normally talk to about this are far away. I feel lost. I can't talk on the phone to my friends, because I'm in a car with three other people. I am too self-conscious to break down in front of them. I don't know what to do.

And I feel waves of panic. It's as if I expect something terrible to happen while I am gone. I have nightmares when I sleep.

I wish I could put all this aside for now and concentrate on enjoying and appreciating this tour. I've never crossed the US in a car before, and it's beautiful. I wish I could love what's happening. But I don't know what to do with all this pain. I don't know how to handle it. It spills over everywhere making a big mess. I'm falling apart.

I just have to keep going. Maybe if I pretend I'm handling it it will just pass. Maybe I should talk to the others. What should I do?

Day Five

August 17, Tuesday

I slept in until 10 am in preparation my date with Chris Groves. He was already up and waiting for me, fashionably attired in short red shorts, a blue t-shirt, and a sweatband. "Feel free to leave me behind," I said.

"Of course not!" he said kindly, but that's not what I wanted to hear. If he stayed with me, I'd have to run the whole way. It's a point of pride. I'm deeply competitive, even in games where my skills don't give me any reason to be. The last time I ran seriously and consistently was probably a decade ago and here was Chris, who'd run a half-marathon a couple months ago, and was training to run another next week.

I thought I would die. Well, not actually fall down dead, but it my runner's fever delerium I began wondering what, exactly, would happen if I kept going beyond my ability. Would my legs simply collapse from under me? Or would the oxygen flow to my brain be strangled enough to make me faint? Really, how do we know the limit of the endurance of the human body?

Our reward was to be coffee at the Starbucks a few blocks from home. But as we neared it Chris discovered that the ten-dollar-bill he'd stuffed securely in his socks was missing. This presented a very serious blow to morale. What was the point of running anyway, when there was no coffee to be had at the end??

But, desperate, we went into the Starbucks anyway. "What if I gave you my credit card number?" Chris asked. No, we couldn't do that, because they required a picture ID. "For your security," the coffee jockey said with an apologetic smile. Fuck security! But I controlled myself and instead channeled my caffeine-deprivation rage into looking as charmingly sad as I could. "Well, how about if we just pay you later?" Chris pressed, smiling.

"Ahhhh." The clerk looked pained. He glanced over at the woman working behind him. She gave a brief nod without looking over at us. "Sure, go ahead."

"Okay. You can pay later."

"THAT IS SO SWEET!!! Thank you!!" My relief was, I'm sure, audible.

Ah, but you don't want to hear about all that. I bet you want to hear about res at the Egyptian Theatre. We went because it's a cool event, but also because Jason Koxvold was getting his new video for Citizens Here and Abroad screened there.

We drank the sponsorship drink S Guaro. Some kind of "beyond vodka" distilled from sugar cane. It was foul. But free. I had two glasses.

It was impossible not to smoke with Jason Koxvold around. But he had these strange cigarettes from Philippines which were branded Marlboro Lights but tasted and looked like... Winstons or something. Well, quitters can't be choosers.

Jason was staying at the Standard so we headed over there to have one more drink on the rooftop. It was a chilly night for Los Angeles, the air fresh and cool. The drinks were horrifyingly expensive. I passed and instead occupied myself with amateur photography.

Next up: Tucson, Arizona. But first: another 8-hour drive. Whoo-hoo!

Day Four

August 16
Monday
(on tour with dealership)

The Casbah is a good club, with a pretty outdoor area and a back room for game-players. Although there are some apartments around, I guess the noise isn't really a problem, and it's very pleasant to stand outside in the patio in the warm evening and listen to the music through the open double doors. The airport is very close, so every thirty seconds a jet passes directly overhead, punctuating the music. Last night the jet sounds seemed appropriate.

I was strangely cold, probably from being tired. The night before I'd had a cigarette, and I was really feeling it. Really. I mean, down to my tingling fingertips. It was slightly easier than the day before, but everytime I went outside I wanted a cigarette. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask the friendly, laid-back staff if I could bum one. They were lounging outside, happily smoking. Greedily smoking, I thought. Damn lucky bastards.

I decided to get a drink instead. The bartender was sitting at the corner of the bar reading Thomas Pynchon's V. "I never could get through that book," I said.

He nodded. "I finished Gravity's Rainbow, finally. You just have to make yourself get through it."

I'm not that great at making myself get through anything. Not books, not exercise regimes, and certinaly not quitting smoking. I ordered a vodka tonic.

The drink calmed me down. I toyed with the idea of cultivating an alchohol addiction but rejected it. Drunks are not pretty. You get red-nosed and puffy-eyed and slurry, like you've been hit in the face. The thing about cigarettes is that most of the damage is on the inside, at least until you get older and start noticing those fine lines, those wrinkles, the nicotine stains on your teeth and fingers. Vanity is a powerful motivator. I kept that in mind as I stepped outside one more time to stare longingly at the carefree smokers laughing and waving their cigarettes in the air.

We played first, so we could relax and enjoy the rest of the show. We played pretty well, except that I stepped on my lead and pulled it out of my guitar in the middle of the song. Luckily, it was only a brief interruption of the rock.

SSI played next. I thought they might be from the Bay Area because one of the guys had a BART sticker on this laptop. I liked their set, although I think visuals might have been a good idea. It's hard to just sit and watch two guys on laptops bobbing their heads.

Next up: Cex. If you haven't seen them, it's hard to describe the energy they exude. Ryan, the singer, projects a sincerity that is electrifying, all the more so since sometimes he seems on the edge of sanity. He actually reminds me very strongly of Justin Hall - not just their physical aspects, which are remarkably similar, but in their hungry and all-accepting approach to life. They embrace life with all the warts and thorns.

Then we had a nice drive back up to LA, where we're staying at Casa Groves for one more night. I get my own bedroom and bathroom - it's pretty sweet. This'll be the last time for a couple weeks I'll get such luxury to myself!

when skies are grey

i tell myself it's all going to be all right. but it's hard to drown out all those little voices of discouragement, when they all chime in a chorus like they are doing now. i'm not sure yet how to construct my own escape route but i will.

it's just a minor setback. i gather my scattered thoughts and get ready to go ahead. as soon as i figure out what direction i'm supposed to move in.

travel on

it's hard to feel like i'm settling down here because i'll be going on tour with dealership this weekend. we've got a show at the gorgeous mile high club (run, incidentally, by my own dear lisa nola) on friday the 13th, a show at the venerable bottom of the hill on saturday the 14th. come by to say hello and support the local clubs which book so many great bands and keep indie music alive.

... and then we're off to LA on sunday the 15th. the compete tour dates are here.

in the meantime, i am just a little bit anxious. it's been five weeks since i've touched a keyboard ot an electric guitar!

Home Again

Dear Diary,

Fluid, idiomatic English flowing on the streets seems strange - the fact that I can understand every single word is quite distracting, especially when, thinned from fatigue, my attention wanders easily from table to table gathering phrases along the way and idly puzzling over them. The sun, filtered through a layer of cloud cover, shines weakly, and in the pale light the streets outside the window seem dreamily far away. It all seems less real to me right now than the memory of a morning suffused with unrelenting sunlight on a patio under a grape vine in a little village at the foot of the mountain.

Reality seems blurry. This always happens to me after I travel. Perhaps it's a reminder to me that reality is a relative state, an audio-visual collage, constantly shifting. My lens for this bay area needs adjusting.

But I'm home. With a bittersweet mix of relief and regret. Which nothing will solve but a big dose of nostalgia filtered through the photos and text I am now in the midst of preparing. Lucky you!

More soon!

Love,

Jane