“When the cat threw up on my pedal board case, I thought: I’m done with this. But I wasn’t sure which. Music technology? Or cats? Or possibly, it was just the two combined. I carefully extracted the pedal board, put the fabric case in the washing machine, and tried to hide my irritation, from the emotionally fragile feline who’d done the deed. Now the pedal board sits on my dining room table, a kind of lawn ornament. Power strip, voltage regulators, EQ boxes from Headway & Radial, and those seductive empty spaces saved for toys packed away or not yet purchased. I’d almost forgotten the alternate me. Who plugs, and unplugs, then refers to the cable tester for a definitive diagnosis. How I miss my guitars in storage! Yet, setting off at dawn this morning, for another part of the state, to drive new back roads, with sketchy directions, and no faith in GPS, I feel energized. After last night’s torrential rains, power outages, and as yet, no internet connection at 1800 feet, what would be the point of hanging around home? I’m antsy & surely my truck’s free wheeling trajectory will bring me closer to all things providential and good. Escapism, yes, and pure American fury. Sick of the endless pablum of public debate. Searching my maps for routes 63, 64, 65, and 66. All within reach. I’m still able to buy gas, on plastic credit. I can divert, and wend & weave, because I’ve put in decades learning the ropes of my local culture. The kingdom goes deeper, the more you know. There will always be doors within doors. For me, it’s nothing to drive a hundred twisted roads to reach a small town library, park outside & login from the truck. It’s my right to wander in and out, and never be noticed. I prefer it. My choice to go up Bobbinshop Road, I admit, was frivolous, but also as the crow flies, practical. Having driven it for years in all conditions to get to work, I couldn’t possible fear anything it would throw at me today. An hour earlier, I would have been wrong. But by 9:30 am, the capable men of the towns had been out for hours already, opening the ravaged roads. It looked like a tornado had been through, and I remember when one had, and topped all the trees, nearly in half, for a full mile years ago. This was eerily similar. West Chelsea, East Brookfield: Same towns, similar level of destruction, felling the oldest, most statuesque maples, at every four corners. Washed out ditches, almost taking the main road with it, only recently repaired by one backhoe. Or another. I was lucky to get through. To the new gardening client, who’d bought a farm formerly used for commercial growing of ornamental shrubs and perennials, for cut flowers and wreathes. That’s a mouthful, and so was the acreage. Rows, upon rows, of neglected flower beds, some fully engaged in bloom, some gone by, botanically interesting but, for all practical purposes, a headache to the average homeowner. Not that she was average. She was keen to do the right thing, and motivated, but flummoxed by quantity. Just my kind of job. I like to think big, then bring things under control. And if that means jettisoning a whole part of accepted reality, so be it. Truth is far greater than buzz. That which plumbs for a deeper distillation, more potent, compelling, disturbing, controversial, and before it’s time than the boring mainstream. As in life, so on the home front. Carpenters framing up the studio, now nearly to the second floor. A pipe dream come true, banging itself into manifestation according to some old order of thieves. A pact of friends, some new, some old, unworthy, righteous, whatever. Humble humans working along side those who also, love to work. “Happy in that we are not over happy”, as Shakespeare would say, or in other words, content. Not measuring imaginary numbers, just real ones that define a wall, or a floor.”
