Thursday, February 8, 2018

Tour Life versus Home Life

It’s quiet in my house.  A rare occasion of late, with dogs and children and insomniacs running around this place.  To find a moment when I can’t hear the creak of a floor being walked on, the sound of a laundry machine or air filter running, a child babbling…and even though there are still a hundred things that need to get done, they are not present in my mind.  

An un-illuminated Christmas tree.  A black TV screen.  A still record player surrounded by thousands of minions who are eager and ready to come out.  A black blob of fur, known as a dog, sleeping soundly next to my typing fingers.  A cup of coffee, cold and sweet, made well over 90 minutes ago at 5:45 AM that I’m still nursing.  It’s winter and the room I’m sitting in, my living room, is half subterranean and this time of year it’s hard to determine when day and night meet.  A perpetual gray, as uninviting to energy and activity as most anything I know.  

When I’d be sitting on a tour bus, going on a year or two ago by now, I’d yearn for the precise moment I’m in.  My house, my sweatpants, my coffee, my own motives driving the schedule of the morning…my silence.  Those mornings when the front lounge is food and drink and sweat drenched from the night before, the bathroom floor is cold and covered in piss from the swaying dicks trying to pee half awake in a shaking bus.  There is no water, so hands and teeth and face must remain.  A poop inside of you that would no longer inhabit you if you had access to a normal toilet.  But you must remain steadfast, waiting for an open venue or hotel room to bask in glorious feces majesty.  

But, then, there is the other part.  It’s 8:00 at night and things relax around here.  So tired from the day and not normally up for much more activity.  When the TV cranks up or the book cracks or the popcorn kernels rip like fireworks in the other room…I imagine playing a show. 

The new people everyday.  The warming up and the feeling of blood running in my muscles. The gurgling that creeps in my stomach before I hit a stage, the tense and beautiful movement of energy that happens before and after and during.  I miss the sweat and the power and the catharsis. 

These feelings are mutually exclusive.  They each have a home, and neither seems to be particularly welcomed in the other.  I feel so lucky to know both, as I know many people in life haven’t been lucky enough to have found either.  A warm and loving home or a thriving and successful career, based off a childhood dream.  Not too bad.  

There comes a time when you have to look at yourself, inside of human nature and realize all these feelings make sense.  Grass is always greener.  It’s an odd part of humanity that I appreciate.  Our abilitiy to adapt is amazing.  But that means anything can become routine and expected after time, and less time than you’d think.  It’s this fundamental nature of man that can’t allow me to believe in contextually human afterlife…anything would get boring, 72 virgins, hellfire or eternal Xbox.  Either way.  

The important thing is to step back and look.  Take a minute to remember.  Force yourself back, why you started and place what’s really important.  It’s a constant exercise to appreciate.  I’m still working on it, not quite there.  






1 comment:

  1. This is such a great post! Insightful and enjoyable to read, as always.

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