I'm surrounded by big rigs hauling freight East on Highway 70. A day punctuated by trucks.
I'll be in St. Louis in an hour. A day punctuated by departure points.
Three days traveling no less than 8 hours per. A run punctuated by ticks on a calendar.
People keep asking where I played and with whom and when. A tour punctuated with question marks.
I've just booked Alaska in December. This will not be predictable. An album release punctuated by extremes. The first in the deep South. The last in the frozen far NorthWest.
I don't know. I don't remember where I played and with whom or when. My existence, these last months, is a dotted white line, punctuated by sound checks.And stops at Subway. And Starbucks. And though I refuse to speak Starbucks Orwellian Italian hybrid, I still drink their stupid coffee. It's predictable. I need predictable on the road. A life punctuated by the familiar.
Alaska, in the winter, will not be familiar, but I can't think on that. I've got St. Louis tonight. And I'm lucky. I'm working. And tonight, I'll punctuate the weekend, back in my own bed, because I'll drive 4 hours through the night to do it.
Was it always like this, all this space between punctuations?