Boulder, CO – “Our House” – July 30, 2002

I’m two days shy of flying back East to finish up the tour. The idea of heading back into Moby’s upholstered arm(rest)s is bittersweet when contrasted against this week spent in my fiance’s real live arms. Dean was a sight for sore eyes, standing at the door waiting for me, heart open and steady as I stumbled into his embrace, exhausted and battered, like a soldier returning from war.

2403 Pine Street, our house — bought together and renovated with our own hands, has grown and transformed in my absence.  Our shelves have new dishes, our bed has sheets.  Dean, ever thoughtful, outdid himself and by restoring my parent’s dining room table, reviving its 1975 charm in a way that made it glow with my musical, childhood memories. For my homecoming, he adorned every corner with little miracles—lights hanging delicately, plants thriving, and our bedroom turned into a haven of love. Candles flickering like an orchestra of warmth and hope.

We’ve barely left that room. The world slips away, and our time together is reduced to only the simplest needs—food, the occasional breath of fresh air, some light stretching, and three shows in the mountains.

Dean came with me to all of them. The first two were smooth enough, but Aspen was a total mess. The venue was chaos—two soundmen were in a full-blown standoff when we arrived, and from above, torrential rain poured as if to drown the town off the map. But all storms have their silver linings. My grandma Trudy surprised me by showing up smelling like tea rose (her signature scent), and despite everything, we sold $700 worth of CDs.  Take that rain!

It’s interesting, even though the first half of this tour has been uglier than most, there’s been a shift in the energy at shows.  I can see our crowd size growing, our show tightening, and my career blooming and growing roots.  I know we have something special and that people are catching on and it’s exciting.  But it doesn’t change the fact that being away from Dean physically hurts. 

Where I once used to dream of a life on the road, basking in its freedom and adventure. Now I dream of a life at home—here, in Boulder, in Our House, which like the one in the CSN song, is a very very very fine house, with two cats in the yard…

and the steady rhythm of daily routines, and a man who loves me.  Being away feels…off, like I’m stretching myself too far—a rubber band set to snap.

But what would I be working toward if it weren’t music?  Would I pursue Dean’s and my landmine victim rehabilitation innitiatives in The Tranquility Project? Write music for others? Open that raw food restaurant I keep imagining Dean and I running? Or maybe breathe life into Consenses, a new idea that’s been begging that I build a multidisciplinary art collective in town?

The possibilities might be endless if I could bring myself to imagine stepping away from the path I’ve charted—but the tracks I’ve laid are my own. I’m invested in them.  I routed them. I forged and carved them and lay them into the dry earth —a road less traveled in the well worn map of music.  I’ve committed myself to this lifestyle, to this band. I bought Moby to take us where I believed we were all heading —The idea of jumping tracks feels utterly impossible.

And after all, to be fair, the road isn’t all bad. It’s just… hard and awful.

Maybe surrounded by Moby’s arm(rest)s are exactly where I need to be, at least for now. It’s only two more weeks after this, and Dean will be flying out to see me next weekend. I’ll hold onto that thought, wrap myself in it like armor, and just keep going as I have been for five years now.

I’ll have to see how I feel by the end of this leg.

Signing off… confused.