Who said there’s only one heaven? Most places I’ve been, I’ve felt at home, instantly, sad to leave so soon.

 

Every new place I arrive, feels like I’m coming home.

 

Why choose just one? Why not exist in all.

 

The house in suburban Virginia, cozy bed, quality company, multiple meals at the local diner, catching up with a college friend I ain’t seen in years. Stayed an extra night, allegedly to avoid rain and destination-less 2AM driving. But ‘twas really the company that caused me to linger. Even coalesced to watching an episode Project Runway, indulging my friend’s guilty pleasure, between more engaging, intellectual and emotional conversation. I predicted who’d be forced to leave the Island. Virginian suburbia, oddly, seemed more soulful than its South Floridian counterpart.

 

Days in NYC. Coffee-shopping in the village. Despite gentrification, you can still feel the ghosts. At the 24-hour Esperanto. Somehow, though I’ve never been there at 4AM, it’s comforting, sitting there for hours in broad daylight, to know that I could be. Repeat waitresses, amongst the 17 3/8^th females I’ve fallen in love with, and these just with a mere smile and a couple cups of coffee. Baristas break my heart. Repeatedly. Stuck around another day, just to sit, write, read, watch, talk, be. Never want to leave. Stuck around yet another night. Just to Gypsy-King it. Each new friend feels a soul-mate, or at least an anciently kindred soul.

 

Then there was the Rural Liberal Arts school in Vermont, a time-warp three or four some odd years back (though I, myself, never attended such a small school). A chance to do it over (isn’t everything an attempt to recreate, relive, try again). The frat-like party I’d never been caught dead at during my own college years. We’ll chalk the delayed indulgence up to an experience I missed years before on account of earlier/alleged integrity. The collegiate company, community. The open-ness and ease. And conversation. Drunken nonsense betwixt and between intellectual posturing, which is still more comforting, after all this time, than the more inane talk (or lack of talk, altogether) of other geographies. Instant friends, though four to seven years younger.  Still in the bubble, not yet jaded in full.

 

Fall in full bloom (is that incorrect, or oxymoronic…as fall is the start of de-blooming. Odd how the slow start of dying, of decay, can be so beautiful.)

 

I could live here. Stay here forever. Or at least a while longer. But once moved on, I don’t miss it too much. This or the other places. Perhaps it’s my chameleon nature, an ability to adjust, to embed, ingrain, so quickly. That makes me long not to leave, but not lament leaving, once I’ve left. Maybe its just restlessness or some sort of spiritual scale-balancing to a year in my hometown. Wondering if I’ll ever find myself settled or stationary (at least, contendedly so) for longer than a week, a month, a year at most.

 

My cases keep breaking, threatening slowly to destroy what’s protected in side. And while I couldn’t afford to replace the guitar, or the laptop, if it came to that…I also can’t afford to replace the strapless bag or increasingly cracked case. Broken zippers. Contents exposed. Even the handles are tearing slowly. Ranks, levels of protection, being worn down. There’s a metaphor here, I know it. Just not sure what it is. Still, I’m holding on.

 

I have an instant crush on girls who sit legs crossed, Indian-style on chairs in coffee-shops, restaurants, at the theater. Legs upon legs. Limbs over limbs. Knee pulled up to chest. Other on the seat. Foot tucked under thigh. With a yogic ease and outward disregard that melts my heart.

 

The apparently homeless, or at least ragged, Spanish kid at the subway turnstile in New York. 116^th Street Station. Like playing three card monte, a dance with empty MetroCards, a pattern, a scientific code, or pure random luck. Swiping others in for free. Charity or some sort of game, mere amusement. Lending a helping hand, paying it forward, balancing his personal karma in an illegal but oddly generous way. A secret nod of his head, when I discovered my own card empty. Granting passage. And asking nothing in return.

 

A return to the quaint CollegePerk CoffeHouse in Maryland. A returned invitation to Rob and Heather, IlyAimy, who I’ve once again synchronously aligned with, geographically and otherwise. This time on their home turf. We’ll share the stage and share the evening. It’s a plan.

 

Half-way through my first set, Rob joins in on guitar. The joy of collaboration. Not indulged in often enough by me as solo-troubadour. The artistic humbling by others, far more adept at their instruments, at their improvisational musicality than me.

 

And, as I set in on my Dirge, solo and a capella, as always, lo and behold, Heather appears, as if materializing, sonically and physically, right next to me on stage. A pre-rehearsed harmonic surprise. A genuine gift, really. It’s beautiful. I’m moved to watery eyes by the kindred gesture.

 

If only I had the musical dexterity, after 20 years of playing, to reciprocate. Alas. I’m a hack. But a grateful and humbled hack.

 

“A song a day keeps the doctor away…that’s what I say, anyway.” I wish I were as prolific as the gray and bearded, dusty beatnik.

 

On the street. Burlington, VT. The central strip, benches, book stores, boutiques, and sidewalk cafes. Europe meets Ben and Jerry’s. I sit, taking it in, guitar case underfoot. And I’m spotted, by a kindred spirit, scouting out some prime-busking real estate.

 

An older soul, mid to late 60’s I imagine…or merely worn (and at once, enriched) by experience. Jon. Former Saw Mill worker. But the mill ain’t runnin’ no more. Out to play the evening, not for the money, but for pleasure, for practice, for pure passion. “I worked a full day today, so I ain’t got no need for the dough.” Missing a fair couple of teeth. 9 o’clock shadowed and grey. Spoke fondly of Dylan, a demigod. His own songs very reminiscent of Bob, early, rough, and raw. “I write one song a day. You know what they say…”

 

Ain’t had to sleep in the car yet. Ain’t had to shack up in a motel. Always a friend, old or new. And a couch, old or new.

 

Burlington. It came close. I’d even called a campground, to see about vacancies. And then I begged. Well, not really begged. But dropped mention - in an open mike set at Radio Bean - of my home-and-couch-less-ness. Three offers, off the bat. Of varying luxury. Of various intentions. One college girl volunteered a hardened floor, with an implied upgrade to a cozier bed, hers, I imagine. Her friends teasing her. Next to her generous message written on my mailing list (“I can put you up”), they had subsequently scribbled (“…and lay you down”).

 

I opted for the more kindred spirit, the compatriot rambler and fellow singer-songwriter, reminiscent of P. Simon, circa Scarborough Fair (why is it that we hate comparisons and categorizations, and yet, we always do the same, with more intended respect and awe than “You sound like John Mayer”…but, still, our minds need to associate). Had moved to Ireland for a girl. Had moved to Burlington, temporarily, for another - We are a community. A quiet community. Of dreamers. But there are more of us than earlier imagined - Up until 3am, if not later. Talking. Picking brains. Milking each other for insight, respective experience.

 

People are kindred and kind. Either on account of having been there, on the road, doing the same, needing the same kindness. Out of desire to be on the road and a knowledge of future need. Or an envy and respect for the freedom. For the wind and the tightrope that they may never know.

 

 

Mon Montreal

 

 

Miles before the Canadian border, the 45 Degree Line of Latitude is marked by a roadside sign. These measurements, in some ways real, in most ways artificial, intangible, altogether irrelevant, nonetheless try to impose some gimmicky order on general chaos.  To satiate the tourist instinct.

 

Same goes for State and County Lines, which I cross with the seeming frequency of sidewalk cracks. Some occur in the middle of bridges, over rivers. Our attempt to fence things in.

 

In the Canadian Border Office. The stoic and skeptical immigration official, casts doubt on my fanciful reality, my chosen irrationality, as though he were a parent: “So, let me get this straight. You’re from South Florida and you’ve driven all the way up here, to play a free show at a small art gallery on a Wednesday night in Montreal?” Then, judgmentally, with elevated eyebrow, “Hmm.” Pause. “What kind of music do you play?” So cordial! Are we making conversation, now? Getting to know each other? Is he genuinely interested or somehow prying, aiming to catch me in some sort of lie. “Acoustic folk-rock. Jazzy. Bluesy. Singer-songwriter stuff,” I say, in all honesty, only half-casually, other half fearfully, navigating the waters. Though perhaps a portion of my earnestness is, in its earnestness, as though he actually cared, sarcastically, casually mocking. “Ahhh, I see.” He disappears away for a fair while. Researching my musical genre, perhaps, to confirm it exists (“What is this Folky-Rocky. Jazzy. Bluesy. You speak of?”)

 

 

Montreal. First time cross the Canadian border. Shawn, the tourist. Walks the street and uses sonar to find the most appealing coffee house. Sits in it for hours, listening to French music, French conversation (eavesdropping without understanding a word, and yet it doesn’t seem to matter), reading, writing, thinking, facing the window, a cinema screen to the street, trying to viscerally gather the subtleties of this foreign coffee shop as compared to one in New York City as compared to one in San Francisco as compared to one in Melbourne. It’s a unique brand of tourism. Trademarked, perhaps. But far more fulfilling than postcard photo-ops and guided tours.

 

I want to go where I don’t speak the language. Where dancing is Dionysian.

 

Here there is activity seven nights a week. Here, a bar is not a means to an end. A drunken escape from the day to day. An attempt to drown out reality, drown out conversation, end up in the bed of another, with as little effort as possible. Here dancing isn’t a veiled courting technique, it’s purely Dionysian. It’s an all-out celebration of life. It can be done alone, on a crowded or empty dance floor, without the smallest trace of pretense. 18 year olds next to 80 year olds, casting no judgment in either direction. And in so far as it is sexual, as a side-effect, it’s only in so far as sex is also of the Dionysian, also a celebration of life.

 

A victory. This past week, Sunday to Sunday, I made more money off my music than I made in a two-week paycheck, after taxes, at my Substitute Teaching job last year. Less a testament to my financial success, I admit. And more a testament to my pathetic salary this past year. But, nonetheless, I’m encouraged and hopeful. I can make just as little money doing something I love.

 

 

I find myself practicing AwShucks English. Apologetic Anglo. Perhaps that will endear me to the locals. I’m sorry to not speak French. Hell, I’m sorry to not be French when I’m up here. I drizzle my speech with poor attempts at incorporating the few phrases I’ve learned. Je un vwachoore, bebe. A pathetic pick up line?

 

I wake up in the bed of a beautiful French film student. In a house with three others. Funny, in heaven I don’t speak the language.

 

I choose naiveté. A chosen naivete. An opted for innocence. I know reality. I’ve seen it and lived it a fair bit. And I choose to be blissfully blind. I am driven by this belief that if I string together enough irrational, irresponsibly, impractical decisions and actions. If I’m driven solely by my gut in executing all of the above. That it’ll all work out. That I can live in my own reality. That I can be happy. It is also a core belief that life need not be stale, static. And then, even if I fail trying to prove otherwise, I fail trying ‘til the end.

 

Echoing in my head, silently off my lips, mantra-like, more convinced, more certain, with each repetition: “I refuse to live a normal life. I refuse to live a normal life. I refuse to live a normal life.”

 

 

It’s less and less apparent that I’ll end up with anyone in the end, at all. But increasingly apparent that, if I do, they likely won’t be American.

 

I’m completely lucid, but blissfully absurd. I’m completely lucid, but blissful. I’m completely lucid, blissfully absurd.

 

Why are we so open to life-experience, to meeting new people, to embracing diversity, and the world, and limitless possibilities when we’re backpacking. But this mindset doesn’t translate into static, back-home reality. On a personal, individual, subjective level. As well as a widespread cultural one.

 

A construct I apparently live in – problem is, most others don’t - The Shawn World, let’s call it, for trite simplicity’s sake - at present, and in hopes for some perpetuity, is like backpacking through life. Backpacking in my own backyard. Backpacking in my own country. I’ve no qualms about sleeping on a different couch every night. No longing for the four walls of a home base. Can’t imagine, at this point, that I will for a long time. I’m truly homeless, or multi-homed, or mobile-homed, if you will. I have no spiritual ties, save for familial ones, to South Florida. I’m aiming to dissociate altogether. Lamentably, as it’s where I grew up and where I was last, it’s where I have to claim to be from. At least in Australia I could say “San Francisco.” These days, I say, wherever I was yesterday. I guess in Montreal, I’m from Vermont. But, I don’t know where I’m from. Where I’d be from if I could choose. Where I identify the most. Turn up the Sexton soundtrack: “When I find that sweet home or at least a place I like to call home anyway…” (“And it’s written in the stars, steel bars, never will a prison cell make…”)

 

On the way back through the border, the American officer forges small talk as well. “What were you doing in Montreal?” “I’m a musician.” “Ah, what kind of music?” - Are we chitchatting, again? Are we making small talk? – “Original acoustic folk-rock, jazzy-bluesy. Trying to make a life out of it!” – “Really, how’s that going for you?” – Condescendingly? Do you care or are you trying to catch me in a lie. I’m so naive that, even for a moment, I’d think or at least like to believe the former.

 

Somewhere in Upstate New York, en route from Canada, back to Boston, I manage to receive my first ever-speeding ticket: 81 miles per hour in a 65 mile per hour zone. Though, I assure, it was a safe 81 miles per hour, as the highway was relatively empty, and the guy in front of me in the New York License Plated SUV was going at least as fast, if not faster. I insist that I was chosen for this ticket, instead of him, on account of prejudice and profiling…bohemically profiled…my out of town plates and my hippie-hair in clean-cut rural Upstate New York.

 

“Where you coming from?”

“Montreal.”

“Where you going?”

“Boston.”

“What were you doing up in Montreal?”

“I’m a traveling musician. I was playing a show.”

“Ah. Hmm. And in Boston, you’re playing a show?”

“Yes.”

“And you make a life out of this?” Condescendingly. This is a theme.

“So far. I’m trying.”

“Hmm. What kind of music?”

Small talk. This is a theme.

“Solo-Acoustic Soul-Folk.”

“Right.” And as though my genre were some kind of sequitur. “So, you’ve got anything in that car you shouldn’t have?” Coy and skeptical. Knowingly though wrongfully convinced.

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“Are you sure, now?”

“I’m positive.” Not for drug testing. Positive. Not my urine. Positive. That’s there’s nothing in the car.

This will become a theme.

 

I’m almost two months in. I’ve found some secret. A way to slow time. Though it’s also speeding by, at large. Always keep moving. Pinball movement. Perpetual velocity. Montreal feels a month ago. Middelbury a year. I don’t remember everywhere I’ve been, in chronological order. It all blurs, beautifully. It all beautifully blurs.

 

The 29^th of October. An experiment. Esperanto Café. My favorite in NYC, and perhaps, transitively, the world. Open 24 hours. Though I’ve never been here at 4am, it’s always been comforting to know that I could be. Post-SideWalk Cafe Show, with November an Open Slate, no bookings ahead, I opt to stake out the café overnight. Just to sense the energy, the vibe, to see what characters might wander in ‘round 3:47 in the morning.

 

It appears, at first (1:53am), that the café stays open merely to be loyal to its motto: “always open”…NOT on account of demand or any sort of influx of customers.

 

Of course, I’m here, I imagine, in hopes that a beautiful femme, kindred and kind, might venture in somewhere between the hours of 2-3AM. And that this experiment might be draped with purpose, with love, with discovery, with connection, with reason and with forged fate. But, it won’t happen. Still, it doesn’t hurt to hope. And what alternate discoveries might be made in the process…

 

…Perhaps, that I shouldn’t have had three beers prior to such an outing, as drowsiness already overwhelms at 1:57. And I surrender to the night, to the cold street and the long subway ride, somewhere round 3AM. The café stayed empty, anyway.

 

October 29. New York City. Just played my last booked show of the tour, thus far. I now stand on the precipice of November (and the future, thereafter). Vacant and Void. Unbooked for reasons that need not be mentioned. Will chalk it up to complacency. And on account of not taking my own responsibility for my own career and plans. A lesson I always learn. Intimidated. This can’t happen if I’m to make it work. It’s shot wide open.

 

Yet enthralled, enticed, and embracing of the unknown. I’ve also a month of freedom, of the unexpected, of possibility. An undefined ocean of possibility. Though I oughta drop a few anchors. Some mere possibilities, momentary sketches come to mind. The entire nation is my chessboard. The unplanned is infinitely more satisfying than the pre-booked. Life-changing. Door-opening. Perhaps there’s no other way to traverse the country. Open to all options. No restrictions, save financial. Free to roam, whilst sipping the remaining funds through a straw at the bottom, the very floor of the financial well.

 

A year of touring. A year later. After spending 2007 On The Road. Cross Country. Out of my Hyundai Elantra. 38,000 Miles. Playing Music. In pursuit of the dream. Coastal Bouncing. Perpetual pinabll style. I take some recent psuedo-stability to reflect and compile my Tour Journal, snapshot style, patchwork fashion. And present it here, for public consumption. Month by month, one year later, I will take a look back, and post my Road Stories. Herein are Random Observations, Myriad Interactions, Inner Meditations, Outward Ruminations, Absurd Run-Ins-With-The-Law, Botched Ups Run-Ins-With-Celebrities, Love and Longing, Desire and Despair, Synchronicity and Sheer Chaos, amongst other Odds and Ends.

The Hyundai Elantra. As of yet, unnamed. Packs it all in its cozy trunk. To the brim. And just barely. In its 13 cubic feet. My entire life to be on four wheels. To hell with abundance. Never had or wanted much anyway.

————-

What could be more a testament to sibling love. 10PM. Saturday night. Before my hastily planned, but long-time coming Sunday morning departure. My sister, half-jokingly, reckons that perhaps she’d join me for a handful of days on my northerly journey up the coast. I don’t imagine I need the help, but think the company would be great, we’d bond, and she’d get out of sedentary South Florida for a handful of days. See some more of the country, road-trip like neither of us has ever done. Peek at some cities. Glimpse greater offerings. Act on impulse, out-of-character. I encourage this shift from routine and am eager for her to accompany on account of it, as though I’m benevolently offering some sort of opportunity. And her intentions, however, all the while - increasingly revealed as Natural Disasters delay her return, prolong our joint journey, extend the alleged “adventure” - are made clear to be solely charitable in nature. This is by no means a vacation. No adventure. Not at all enjoyable, per se. Save for the company, which confined over time, brings us back to a bit of our childhood bickering - but that too has its charms, I suppose. She’s only along, she reminds and insists, occasionally asserts, in a loving effort to assist. And make my travels a little easier, safer. Hold my hand as I get my wings. What better testament. We both reckon we’re being selfless in making this a unified venture, and doing so for the other’s benefit, alone.

————-

This, recommended by a local promoter I’d stumbled across online, who reckons it’d be a fairly good fit. Needless to say, a woman who also hosts Saturday night Open Hip-Hop Stages at a local Strip Club. Had I left a day earlier, as planned, that appearance would have made for a remarkable first night on the road and a rather ebullient early journal entry – Karma in a Can-Can (?), strummed passionately to the soothing gyrations of naked flesh – ah, forever in search of the story - for the memoir, no? - but, alas, my departure was delayed a day. Yes. Alas.

We arrive in a somewhat dodgy part of town. Where I’m embarrassedly worried that on Night One, my life in the car, overflowing into the back seat once my sister’s bags are added, might be prone to ransack.

The homeless man who helps us parallel park asks for compensation. We pay. It’s an odd sort of insurance.

Then wander into an enthusiastic and increasingly crowded, unpresuming venue at the end of the dead-end, glass-riddled street.

We meet up with a down-home Atlanta family (and their musical son), all of whom I’d gotten to know a tiny bit at a Florida Music Conference in May – they’re sweethearts, warm and welcoming, even offering their home to me, a relative stranger, and my sister, a complete stranger (who opted us out, as per said stranger-ness). They’d driven 45 minutes from the suburbs simply to reconnect. We make up the majority of the white minority.The lineup commences, and the stage is taken, one after another, by incredibly charismatic, borderline Hip-Hop, Spoken-Word artists, some self-indulgent, all inspirational, stoking the crowd. Which seems successfully stoked, with escalating fervor, but not necessarily prepared for the white boys to follow. Acoustic guitars in tow. Folkiness afire. My compatriot takes to the stage. Finger-picking in full bloom. He mellows out the room, manages to impress, I reckon. But still, the vibe seems a fair bit thrown. I step to the plate, take my beginners shot at my On The Road banter (something about being on prison break, from suburban South Florida…the impromptu rough draft of an on stage introduction that seems to have since stuck), weighing my options about the most suitable song. I stick with Déjà Vu. A bit bluesy. Some soul. It gets a groove going, even a few moving heads, and somehow sufficiently satiates. My curly fro and ethnic ambiguity perchance play in my favor. But it fails to sell CDs - I was hoping for some first-night financial encouragement - or acquire any substantial mailing list sign-ups.

All in all, however and nonetheless, a worthy detour (satisfied with the Soul Food sampling, at the least), before my sister and I move onwards, hours into the Georgia night, in our NorthEasterly direction, to avert Atlanta’s early morning rush-hour, and to Keep on Keepin’ on.

A rapper with an entourage follows our acoustic interlude. A local celebrity, it seems. His performance is magnetic. He recalibrates the vibe and returns the crowd to its proper energy. A cameraman captures his every move. And bodyguards, it appears? I’m uncertain. A scantily clad girl or two amongst the menagerie. And a series of smokers (blunts, perhaps, though the scent don’t seem to suggest such) surrounding the stage, prompted, as if on cue, to produce what’s probably a deliberate poor-man’s organic fog machine effect. As for me, my pyrotechnics failed to fit in the trunk of the Hyundai. And my roadies, sister aside, couldn’t quite cut it in the backseat.

————–

Lost in the middle of the night, on the Jersey Turnpike. Rain falling. Overpriced motels and questionable neighborhoods. Dunkin Doughnuts at 2AM while scrambling over obscure Triple A Trip-Tix. Back in the thick of it. My sister’s getting restless and concerned. But I’m in my element, once again. This is what I love. This is what we remember. What’s life without getting lost…at least, a bit…at best, a lot.

————–

The sun sets in my rear view mirror, somewhere north of Connecticut, closing the book on a rather lengthy last chapter. Moving forward but making peace with the past year. An apt metaphor. Perhaps not the best sunset ever, as per its obstructed, though closer-than-it-is reflection, but a spiritually satisfying one, no doubt.

———————–

It took a week. After two slightly discouraging Open Mics. The aforementioned Atlanta appearance. And a subsequent wash in Washington, DC (a great sound system and a near empty room). This one, researched from the literal road (a phone call to South Florida, while I press forward on I-95…Mom playing secretary, on the computer back home, kindly searching my Open Mic options a couple hours down the geographical line…I jot the details and directions down, while driving, as there’s no time to waste). The effort yields a charming coffee shop, a cordial crowd, an arms opened owner. A stumbled upon community that opts to embrace, as multiple opportunities spill from one single three song set. A booked gig a month down the line. An invitation, on the spot, to venture to another late night hootenanny. An invitation to put in a bit of stage time, in a couple weeks, at one of the most prominent Rhode Island coffee house series. Third’s a charm. The encouragement is much needed, to jump-start the journey in its first days. If all nights, every night - at the least more nights - can be like this. But one must accept, of course, from the outset, that not all will be. Some worse. Some better.

———-

Synchronicity resurfaces. Singing Coffee Shop in a coffee shop, my lyrics seemed to write reality on the spot. As a toothless old man had, in deed, ordered a roast beef on rye. Not just any old sandwich. A literal roast beef…on rye. He smiled as the words spilled from my mouth. A bit confused, surprised, and skeptical. The sign for an Ice Cream shop was, subsequently, visible through the window behind me. And the city was, in fact, getting drenched, as it started to drizzle mid-song.

——————–

Synchronicity Squared. One of my former GRE students from San Francisco overheard music in the back room of a Boston bar whence she ventured to the bathroom, peeked her head round the corner, and haphazardly stumbled across me playing (a last minute, on the spot, guest set). The hair gave it away. Her face held that vague familiarity, that un-pin-able etching. But it came clear when we began to talk. Insanity. My life is perpetually prone to such coincidences (hence, my waxing and waning temptation to believe in fate and/or beautiful humbling chaos) - I reckon all our lives are, however - it’s just a matter of awareness. She hadn’t faired so well on the GRE - I felt guilty – yet she’d just started at MIT - so how could I feel too bad – it all seemed to be working out.

—————–

 

The leaves are already turning on I-95. I’d forgotten red. That such colors exist in nature astounds to no end.

—————— 

It’s the unplanned and accidental that seems to satisfy far more than the booked and anticipated. Breathing room must be allowed for.

—————–
 

I’ve met others, so soon, of the same ilk, having opted, last minute, to linger ‘round Maryland and hit up another Open Mic, simply to see what might come out of it. This, after the “booked” showcase slot the night before produced broken strings and strained interactions with a socially awkward booking agent and an equally aloof owner. I needed to leave Maryland with a better taste in my mouth. And, lo and behold, emerging from the impulsive effort and the cozy college coffee shop comes crossed paths with a power-house musical duo, perpetually mobile, as well. There are others! Originally from the region, they’d long since abandoned their anchoring zip code to move into a beat up Red Saturn and take to the road. Rob and Heather. IlyAimy, when fused together. They had three years on my three weeks. Of course, they’d met other touring musicians in their own travels, but none others in full-fledged, car-for-home, gypsy fashion. What’s more, our respective geographies seemed to synchronously criss-cross and oddly align in the following weeks.

——————– 

I was invited to split a CoffeShop bill with them they following night (an impromptu booking, no doubt leaving a better taste in said Maryland mouth). And, thereafter, they were inspired. Chose to take my fledgling self under their more experienced wings. We opted to unite for a week or two down the line in Boston, Connecticut, Rhode Island, split a couple more shows, jointly venture into a handful of other open-mics.

———————- 

Ah. The distinct pleasure of gypsy road-training it with Rob and Heather. And the unfortunate pleasure of playing after them - their musicality consistently silences rooms. Mentors of sort, bound to be found in some part of J. Campbell’s archetypal Hero’s Journey. The fortuitous crossing of paths, while me, still in my green beginnings. Me, garnering knowledge, inspiration, tools, tips. They, gladly imparting, passing along wisdom. And handy computer map programs. Kindred spirituality. Palatable proof. That this is possible. That this here on-the-road lifestyle, apart from any grander degree of fame desired, can, in itself, be sustainable and somehow practical, even if anonymous, even if practiced in relative obscurity. They measured their financial success by not being in debt, never having to stay in hotels, respectively possessing health insurance, being able to replace broken equipment without going in the red. “The only thing I can’t afford,” said Heather, “ is rent. And constant movement makes that expense altogether unnecessary!” Proof. That there’s a logic, some sort of science in the art. That I’m not insane. Or, alternatively, that others share in my insanity, with tangible success and apparent happiness. Which is second best, or even better, than sanity, itself. Proof.

———————-
 

An amusing anecdotal word of wisdom and trick of the trade, among many, from Rob of ILYAimy:

Lee PressOn Nails and Electrical Tape to guard against blisters and the bloody brutality on nails and cuticles that comes with playing pick-less every single night of the week. Apparently Ani D is notorious for a full hand of fake nails soulfully secured with sky blue electrical tape.

After a handful of attempts with the plastic nails, which felt all too unnatural on my index strummer, I’ve surrendered my own martyred keratin to repeated cracks and consistent wear, opting only for the cuticle cover-up (and occasionally restricted circulation) effectively assured by the electrical tape, on its lonesome.

——————–
 

I sit at these Open Mics. At these NorthEastern Songwriter Showcases, jaw dropped, in awe. I feel inadequate and inspired, all at the same time. An imposter. The talent overwhelms. I’m as green as the Jolly G’s little Asparagus friend. Who am I to think I have anything to bring to the table. And yet, there seems to be mutual respect. Which is vindicating, though the crippling and constant self-doubt that riddles me (and most artists I know, for that matter) still deems it dubious.

—————— 

There seems to be a logic in moving around. Both spiritual and practical. To be frequent, but not permanent.

—————–

To garner respect in the scene, to build friendships, everywhere, but be constantly elusive, always transient.

——————
 

Drive two and a half hours to an open mic. Full of Festus-es, at that (Festi?). A diner at 1AM. Conversation and music ‘till 4. Sleeping on worn couches at some venue in the middle of Connecticut. Blissful.

———————– 

Perhaps it’s crazy to drive 8 hours south to Maryland. Only to drive 8 hours north, once more, back to Boston. And then 8 hours again, north to Montreal. But, hell, this is why I bought the car, right. At this rate, I’m bound to reach my 5 year/60,000 mile warranty in just over a year, if that.

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To live many lifetimes within one lifetime. This is the ideal.

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My manager Mitch Harris (originally Mitch Mason, but that name wreaks of contrivance, as per my weakness for alliteration) made his first successful NYC booking for me at Kenny’s Castaways (I’ve booked the city on my own, already). Speaking about myself and my music in the third person is a mind trip, but perhaps an appropriate angle. The booking agent, inquired, confused, whether he was speaking with Shawn or Mitch. Mitch, of course. He just wanted to clarify, as often managers or agents fail to pass along the proper promotional information to their represented artists. I told him not to worry, “Shawn and I work very closely together!”

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I think I’ve fallen in love 17 2/8^th times in the last three weeks. And three, just today. Which, perhaps, cheapens the experience of falling in love. But is a bit vindicating as to the soul-less-ness of the Suburban Wasteland I’ve felt stuck in.

There was the Hampshire College girl with spectacularly funky earrings, red with polka dots, studying dance and photography, and some obscure, as of yet undefined fusion of the two. I’d been holding out for her to show up again. She rolled her own cigarettes. Which, in its coolness (contrived, I know) almost outweighs the ills of lung cancer. If I smoked, I’d roll my own. We shared coffee, conversation, and falafels. I think I compensated for my high-strung caffeine jittered introduction two days earlier. Perhaps we’ll accidentally meet up again in some other Greenwich Village coffee shop. New York has its way of doing that.

The 2L Columbia Law Student. One of the fifteen Non-Corporate Driven dreamers in her class, at a dinner for said Public Interest lawyers. Spent her summer in Northern Australia (one of a few direct routes to Shawn’s weary heart?), outside of Darwin, working on Criminal Defense and Aboriginal Rights. She spoke of singing in showers and hallways as therapy and catharsis. The Big Chill soundtrack, on loop in her CD player, comprised the bulk of her current repertoire. What I wouldn’t give to eavesdrop on her rendition of the Rolling Stones. Got a deal on her apartment, because an Opera Voice Coach owns the place and requires use of it a few times a week for lessons. She served in the Peace Corps a couple years back before surrendering to Law School. And rode a bike, which would later be stolen. In front of the Law School, at that. Breaking her heart and her spirit. And mine, on her behalf.

The silencing blonde-haired beauty in the small Moroccan club (somewhere off Broadway, in the 100s). The curls. All natural. No make-up. Without a doubt, the most beautiful girl in the bar. More beautiful than the flaunting Federicas, because hers was a humble, a genuine, an understated beauty. I couldn’t touch her. She stood, reverent and occasionally dancing, in awe of the Gypsy Kings…yes, the Gypsy Kings, who were performing two feet away (yes, at a small Moroccan club, in the 100s, somewhere off Broadway). I could only conjure a comment on her kindred hair, as I passed by, excusing myself on the way to the bathroom. But we departed the venue at roughly the same time, somewhere around 4AM, and stumbling into the street, and a rather intense conversation, I wound up walking her home. Only one block away from my own couch-of-the-moment. French and Moroccan. She grew up in the South of France. High School in San Francisco. University in Paris. And taking a year abroad in New York. An actress and dancer. Of course. But torn between Political Science and her passion for the arts. A fear of the selfishness wrapped up in the artistic struggle, and a youthful desire, as of yet untainted, about choosing the more altruistic path. It’s a battle I’ve waged for years, which has been even more intense ever since her eloquence on the subject. Such eloquence, in spite of her broken English, her self-conscious embarrassment that through exhaustion and a bit of drunkenness, she couldn’t choose the right words. But her words were pristine. And her accent rapturous. She eagerly insisted on the exchange of numbers, cutely nervous when I delayed the inquiry. Weeks later, I’d somehow shoot myself in the foot with this one. Never see or hear from her again. So much for falling in love, on the road or perhaps at all. But the moment. The moment’s all that matters. As I said goodbye, I noticed the small scar above her lips. An imperfection, so perfect.

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I’m walking around with a permanent smile. Save for the occasional tear, when something strikes me as beautiful. But it’s no worry. Such tears are only smiles in need of translation.

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I’m now more acutely aware than ever before that my dreams might not play out, that I might not succeed, that the odds are, in deed, against me, that many are called and few are chosen…and, yet, I choose to try, nonetheless, naively, regardless of the realities. Perhaps that’s a form of enlightenment.

I’ve opted for naiveté. I’m bolstering myself with a chosen naiveté. I know reality. I’ve seen it. Lived it a bit. And I still choose naiveté. An enlightened naiveté. An enlightened optimism. Keeping your old soul young. Well-aware of the realities, of that hard cold fact that this might not work out, and yet, moving forward with full-force, nonetheless. Because something tells me there’s no other choice. Or rather, moving forward in spite of the other choices, which are perhaps abundant, and which might prove easier, but are, no doubt, far less true.

 

 

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