On the night before I leave for two weeks on tour I watch 2/3 of The Good Shepherd, eat breakfast food for dinner for fear that the eggs will spoil while I am away, and attempt to read Bill Moyers' son's memoir of drug addiction and redemption before falling asleep. I can't get past the fact that he wrote it with a co-author, which makes me think he didn't really write it all, nor can I slog through the details of his Texas childhood (as much as I sort of love Texas lately) when what I'm craving is another scene like the opening one, where Bill Moyers knocks on the door of the crackhouse and drags his drug-addled son from the jaws of death.
It is the night before I go away and the signs that I am becoming my inexplicable "Road" self are everywhere. I have bought one of those massive exercise balls on which people do crunches and it takes an hour to inflate and then it is the largest thing in my apartment and the apartment sort of feels like Pee Wee's playhouse, a big giant balloon bouncing everywhere. I am compulsivly charging my iPod, my camera battery, my Sonicare toothbrush and anything else I can find to charge, as if I were going for two years behind the Iron Curtain where there are no batteries instead of two weeks in major US cities.
Outside, there is what looks like a movie being projected on a neighboring building but it's actually an Adidas ad that will run all night. My upstairs neighbors throw some sort of rave that involves a thumping bass beat, at varying intervals, that can't stop won't stop and it's now 5:11 in the morning and it is the day I leave. I put in earplugs and close the shades. I have melodramatic, regret-filled dreams in which things I want don't come to pass and I end each dream with a world-weary voiceover like an episode of Grey's Anatomy. I contemplate making coffee and getting a "jump-start on the day" but figure this is the last day I will ever get to sleep in again, I should try to sleep in. I contemplate being one of those people who is out running in the pre-dawn hours on a Sunday and quickly remember who I am. I lie in bed with earplugs in, listening to the bass thump of the blood in my veins and plan to eat only the ten power foods for the two weeks I am on tour and wonder if Whole Foods is open yet.
I make a list of things not to forget to pack and realize I'm no longer a person who doesn't know how to pack. I look for things to scan in my recently acquired scanner and realize I've scanned everything in my apartment, except for my exercise ball, but I have the rest of my life to figure out how to scan something roughly 1/2 the diameter of Jupiter.
I am a tiny planet. I'm spinning in my own restless orbit.