Boulder, CO – “I Miss The Road” – April 4, 1999

Perhaps it was naive to expect that I could catapult myself a thousand miles away, sing in front of hundreds, grow accustomed to strangers and strange beds, cope with peeing in cups and between cars, and return home unchanged.

Now I am depressed, mourning the person I was just over a month ago. I’m left curious about who I am now and what that will mean for my existing relationships. Kipp wants me to move in with him. That seems unwise and unlikely.

I feel hollow. It’s Easter and I imagine my mom, at home on Martha’s Vineyard, hiding easter eggs and crying that Ben and I are on separate tours and not there to find them. The soft pink carpet under my feet feels like luxurious, alien moss as I wander to and from the bathroom. For the past four days at home, this has been the extent of my travels; my daily commute. I’ve been trying to find my land legs, but I’m trapped in a flannel cocoon, unable to lift my aluminum blinds to discern day from night. I find myself unable to return phone calls—even to close friends—much less meet up for coffee.

I guess I miss the road. I long for the novelty of waking up in a different hotel room each morning, the freedom to not make my bed. I yearn for midnight diners, shared laughter with Nisa in dimly lit green rooms, and gas station breakfasts. I miss the thrill of stage lights, the sensation of eyes upon me as I pour out a song, the intimate act of signing CDs, arms, and guitars. I miss the camaraderie of new friends, a cold beer on stage, the buzz of neon lights, and even the stench of Clorox battling the backdrop of smoke, spirits, spilled guts, and bad tunes. I miss the open road.  I miss my band.

My heart is heavy and my head is full of these soporific thoughts as I commute through alien moss from the bathroom back to my flannel haven.