Facing the opposite direction of the train’s motion, I was sucked out of New York City in reverse. Riding backwards uncovered a zoom-out panoramic of the strange transitory territory surrounding the city. That in-between space, with the chess-piece graveyard and the industry.
I’m riding comfortably on Amtrak bound for Ligonier, PA to see my family for Thanksgiving. It could be because I’m reading Einstein’s Dreams, but it seems to me that time is pleasantly circular. After Honeycomb’s wonderful release yesterday, it feels like a natural homecoming to return to the place where it was recorded. Riding in reverse, it seems, also encourages the mind to time-travel.
I haven’t been back to Pennsylvania since that blissfully magic month this summer. We were fools swimming, hiking, eating and having our singular focus be music. A stream of visitors took part in the unreality with us, friends and collaborators becoming a special part of the process. The beautiful hills were our terrain for ATV rides by day and we explored the local bar filled with taxidermy by night.
Only after the fact did I realize that it was somewhat ironic that we went to a huge, rural place to record an album about a pseudo-fictionalized version of New York. To be honest, it’s a difficult transition between the two extremes—how much space should one person occupy, should you know your neighbors, do you walk to work or bike or drive, do you live in a building up in the sky? But because we are adaptable creatures, I’m glad that in my life I get to experience both. And hope to oscillate between the two, for a very, very long time.
Cheers to those who are also traveling on this most-traveled day of the year. Maybe, just maybe some of the songs on Honeycomb have been the soundtrack to wherever you’re going. Thank you thank you thank you to those who are listening, have ever listened or ever will listen. Without others we are lost in time.
Wishing you a belly full of turkey and weekend full of love,