Portland 2019: One Last Show

Actually in Idaho, but I just discovered these photos and they're the only ones I have of any of our shows.
First three photos courtesy of Lounge at the End of the Universe, Boise.

Proof that I did in fact play cello

Jessie Bear! He's a bear.

I was an emotional mess on July 2nd, the day we drove into Missouri, and it wasn't just because of the landscape. I would soon be seeing my parents and some of my friends after being gone for nearly five months, and I would also be saying goodbye to Tyler and Adrienne for a little while, and Jessie and Nolan for the foreseeable future. This little family that we had forged in this breakneck road trip would be disbanded, at least for me. I had already decided that I wasn't going with them to the Audiofeed Festival, and I stuck to that decision, even though I had second thoughts. I had to choose my priorities. But it was still going to be really hard to say goodbye.

This sign in the venue's bathroom made me laugh.

Our venue that night was a punk house in Columbia, Missouri, a spacious warehouse-type space adorned with colorful graffiti. We were one of several bands in the line-up, and I alternated sitting inside with my earplugs listening to the other artists, and standing outside in the humid night chatting with other people. I wanted to soak up this last show, really savor it, really appreciate the people I was with.

Our show was raucous and crackling with energy, the audience a mix of devoted fans and very drunk people determined to dance to every song. I turned my amp up all the way, and broke a few bow hairs, and sang as loudly as I could.

The last song we sung was "Earplugs," a love song that I had played with them on the previous tour, in 2011. In that year, also on tour was a shy young man with beautiful hair who walked fast and I was absolutely not going to fall in love with. Every time we played this song on that tour, I had felt a tug at my heart, wondering if it could be for me, and the boy with the beautiful hair had looked away because he didn't want to get caught staring at me during a love song.

We used that song for the first dance at our wedding, of course.

Now here I was, two thousand miles away from the boy who had become the man I'd married, but I felt our love, our connection, stronger than ever across the continent. Here was a love that both held me close and allowed me space, one that wanted to be with me all the time but could also be happy for me when I left him to gallivant across the country. It meant more to me than ever before.

The emotion I'd felt all day was welling up stronger as I turned my attention to my bandmates. Adrienne in a gunny-sack dress with golden spirals dripping from her hair, gesturing dramatically as she sang. Tyler, bedecked in ram horns with sweat pouring down his face paint, whipping his guitar and pressing his lips to the mic. Nolan, his curly brown hair falling halfway down his torso, his gaze focused inward as he drummed. Jessie swooshing his blue hair around, shaking his guitar for vibrato and tapping pedals with his toes.

The affection I felt for all of them in that moment, the blinding ache of how much I loved each one of them, almost overwhelmed me. It was a huge love. An almost embarrassing love. A love amplified and intensified by being together in a metal capsule for a week and somehow not killing each other.

We sang the last chorus of the song together, a cappella, at the top of our lungs:

Though this body may not hold up,

We will never grow old,

We will pass from life to life,

Though this body may not hold up,

We will never grow old,

And we'll pass from life to life!

Coming to the end of a trip feels like a kind of death. 

We drove to St. Louis that night, crashing at Adrienne's sister's house (also a long-time friend) at nearly four in the morning. Jessie and Larissa slept in one room, and the rest of us in another: Adrienne, Nolan, and I each in a corner on our own bed, and Tyler in the middle on the floor. The air was sticky and warm; we turned on the fan, flicked off the lights, and laid spread-eagled on top of the blankets to try to cool off. Outside, crickets hummed.

My body was beyond exhausted, confused about the time zone, begging me for sleep. But sleep meant bringing this trip to an end. Sleep meant waking up and being driven to my parents' house for the next phase of the journey— one I was dearly looking forward to, but one that didn't ease the pain of saying goodbye to this phase.

"Tell us a ghost story, Tyler," I murmured into my pillow.

Tyler paused for a second, then began to weave a story from his past, about a summer night and a ghostly train. His voice was a low hum, the images taking shape in my tired brain. 

I didn't want this group— this family— to break up. I wanted to keep touring forever, keep basking in this love and friendship and shared experience. I wanted to hold tightly, to possess this week, to grasp the magic in my fists.

But that's not what travel is about.

Travel is learning to love quickly and deeply, and then to let go.

Tyler's story ended with a spooky flourish, and for a few sleepy minutes we talked about ghosts, and time, and things we didn't understand. The conversation dwindled into silence, exhaustion finally having its say.

I laid in the darkness, still glowing with the love I felt for each person in the room. I wanted to say something, wanted to tell them how I felt, but I didn't want anyone to feel obligated to say "I love you" back. I didn't need reciprocity; I loved them whether they liked it or not.

So instead of saying anything, I snuggled into bed and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

But I hoped they felt it. I think it was implied.

~~~