Anonymous asked: are you a tour manager for bands?

I am not (but would sure like to eventually be)! As it is, I just am blessed to know a lot of very talented folks from all across the US and have the opportunity to hop in the van with them, lend them a place to sleep or make them some homemade grub now and then.

Tour managing (for at least a little while) would be a total dream for me, and it’s something that I hope to be able to work up to, in the future, though.

remember how this feels, and never let that slip out of your (sometimes wanting) fists.

Anonymous asked: If the trees could talk what would you say to them?

Lately I’ve been mostly crashing. Counting calendar boxes again, shaky fingers still searching. I listened to that poem about trying to find God in everything and tried, but with every opening of the eye, his stature only got smaller—had me asking “where have you been?” (What sullen audacity grows in me.) There is something to be said for all of these run-on sentences. When I fell onto your couch in your arms I felt a part of myself get dislodged and it’s been rambling around inside of me ever since. Who knew being liked by someone could make you feel so alone? And I’m sweeping up the broken glass, flashing back to the train ride home, your lips, my hands, all of this stupidity. Even my mom on the phone keeps asking “will you miss him when he hops the plane?” and I know it would make sense if I did—that would be an okay thing to do—but I can’t really wrap my head around missing someone who you know will come back. Fourteen days. It will only be fourteen days and how do you miss someone who you’re always trying to kick out? 

(You don’t. I won’t.)

We watched spoken word videos until far later than we should’ve, padded quietly around your kitchen, finished a documentary about cave diving and you kissed my knee. Missed my bus and fell asleep next to you instead. Shuffled to bed, arranged limbs right, laughed in the dark, and eventually fell asleep again. Woke to the postman at the door, messy haired and soft, caught the train together and then split in two directions, hands in pockets. I have nothing more to say than this. Collected evidence of how theoretically flawless this is, but something quiet keeping me ripe with ellipses. 

“we’re really doing it”

in the year of our lord, twenty-eleven.

no:
Anxiety abounding, moving out, tequila, crying in public, paying bills. Botched phone interviews. The formalities of growing up and the side effects of taking chances. Shady co-workers, silence. Saying farewell to Hogwarts. Technology’s constant need to malfunction at only the most inconvenient times, hundreds of hours wasted watching Netflix, and a rise in apathy, goddamn. 

yes:
Moving to and exploring a new city. San Francisco in January. New Orleans and Birmingham in May. Tour vans and friends from the road and Dancakes the morning after. Tom’s Diner on Sundays, grocery shopping at midnight. Kissing. Anything Harry Potter related. Skinned knees in the southern heat, bike rides and that single perfect firefly. My mom’s wedding, sneaking into (and out of) bars, long drives, long walks, all of the comings and goings. Learning to be braver, and taking chances for people I care about. Spoken word, tattoos, bad ideas and finally putting together that ‘zine that I’d meant to for so long. Ticket stubs and photographs, friendships I’m thankful to have and friends I’m grateful to know—growing, learning, everyone moving in different directions but still staying tight knit. Reunions, reintroductions, and the pros, by far, always outweighing the cons. 

Stood in my empty house with all of its white walls and the echos nearly brought me to tears. Tried to tell you about how the idea of the exchange of physical space is hard for me to wrap my mind around. Such finite things. Such terribly finite things. Gathered up the rest of my belongings and said goodbye for the last time.