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New Orleans was all perfume and Jazz, stiff drinks and family dinner. Day’s evaporate on the road and commitments to words and health and phone calls home seem to evaporate too. You try not to watch the news. Take a vacation from the ridiculousness of man, because hell, you’re on the front line, it’s all crowds and voices anyway, and what a lovely sound they make. Then the news gets real and the day moves slower and the war is in your living room, if that’s what you can even call it these days. I don’ t really know about all that though. I know we keep moving. I know I keep moving. It’s all I’ve ever known, and I’m glad for that. Whether it’s this bus down the road to the next city, the next song or tragedy or the gift of a new life. I try not to settle. Some storm is always around the corner, but so is some strange miracle; no traffic at rush hour, half off drinks at the bar. It always was the little things. I don’t know how all of this magic and heartache is bound together but I think that it is. I think the only way to cut these threads of hate and violence away is to fight them with quiet fortitude and peace. One way or another this bus will be there, in the next city for the next couple months, looking for a chance to connect in the language that no hate or violence could silence for long. Music.
