There’s a recurring dream where I live alone out in the Nevada desert. I’m the proud owner of a run-down shack with a skinny horse tied to the back porch. There are no phones, no running water, no sound beyond the light murmur of wind. Every so often, a black-tailed jack rabbit and I cross paths and reflect on one another’s existence.
I don’t know why I love this lucid dream, but I do. Whenever I try to return, though, I can’t find the right door. I tend to end up on a quiz show without pants. Or trouser-less at a movie premiere. There’s got to be a way to dress myself appropriately for the journeys inside my mind.
It’s not about the desire for disconnection. I believe it’s the wish to see things as they are. I want to love what I love because I love it. Even if it doesn’t elicit one single like.
Before I slept, I saw Cavemen out in the woods above Hudson, NY. (If you don’t already know them, they’re an incredible band from Brooklyn. Matt Iwanusa, the lead singer, worked on our upcoming album. I’m both lucky and honored.)
Their sound filled the forest perfectly. Ambient delays and reverb wrapped around the double drumming and golden harmonies. Somewhere in the middle of their set, I got lost in the moment. Connected and detached in the same breath, free of any self-conscious thoughts to hold me down.
My desert cabin isn’t always impossible to reach.
(Maybe this all the obvious result of reading Sam Shepard’s elliptical Motel Chronicles before drifting away. Or maybe I’m amazed at the way you pulled me out of time. And hung me on a line. Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you.)