being someplace else can be incredibly healthy.
you walk different streets, you eat at different bistros, you drink different beer, you meet different people.
the skies different. it’s all just … not what you know. it’s something else.
kate lives two doors down from modest mouse. it’s a bigger corner house with a mannequin looking out of the top window. it overlooks a park and she can hear them jamming all the time. i stood in front of it and thought,
“hey, you’re famous. i love your porch.”
seeing where they live made them normal. they make rad music, but they’re no different than anyone else, really. these dudes drink beers and pay their rent and call their friends and have a deer lawn ornament.
but as most of my thoughts do, the boat caught the undercurrent and i found myself wondering about all the decisions they made to have their lives be this, right here, on this street, at this house. what did they decide that culminated into this?
and that, that undercurrent of thought, is why being someplace else can also just irritate the shit out of settled dust.
it’s kind of annoying. here you think you have a few things figured out and suddenly you stand in front of modest mouse’s house, cock your head to the side, and you feel it, feel something shift. and the dust does a giant, unified grab for the ceiling. f.
rely on their lyrics to articulate it better than i can:
“i like songs about drifters – books about the same.
they both seem to make me feel a little less insane.
walked on off to another spot.
i still haven’t gotten anywhere that I want.
did I want love? did I need to know?
why does it always feel like I’m caught in an undertow?”
– world at large.
holy shit. i don’t know.
the porch across the street.