Space.
I once spent a night in the bunk of a tour bus. (If anyone reading this thinks that we’re rich or famous enough to afford tour buses, you’re both wrong and right — it just depends on how much we’d want to plumb the depths of debt.)
The Great Lake Swimmers were kind enough to take one half of our band along for the ride.
These Canadians, staid and seemly onstage, were the wildest ones in history when set free. Singing perfect harmonies and dancing like sailors in the middle aisle, they sprayed me with cans of beer until I could barely see. We locked arms and listened to vinyl that would skip with every northwestern hiccup in the road. As the sun started to define the horizon and we could no longer stand, we all conceded to sweet sleep.
A few hours later, I woke up with a start in a space that wasn’t much bigger than a coffin. Heart pounding, arms punching, legs kicking.
And then I settled in and settled down. I was partial to this small space that was all mine for one brief morning of the tour. I realized I might be a bunk believer, after all.
This part of the frontier feels like that to me.
I will not get rich from writing on this page. I will not blow anyone’s mind. I will not get married here. No sharks will be wrestled, no lives will be saved. This will merely confirm the depth of who I am and what I know.
It’s a small, starless space to regain my bearings and eavesdrop on the inner echoes.