Wherever

It feels empowering to be in a town an hour-and-a-half away, arriving at close to 10 p.m., after working for most of the day, knowing you'll be there until after midnight, then back home and going back to work early the next morning.

Like you are somehow a master of more than one world, allowing to live in both.

Like you don't actually have to pay for it.

I got to see, listen and talk with Mason Jennings last night/this morning, but going to sleep at 4 a.m. and being up in time to sit in a courtroom over the course of nearly the entire day has been a painful experience.

The experience has been like living in a parallel universe, where your life is what it is ... but different.

So this morning I awoke to find my son's bicycle laying unceremoniously at the edge of the front yard, dripping with morning mist, the kickstand unused.

He ditched it there, when it came time to do the homework and take a shower and go to bed ... blah, blah, blah ... everything that sucks when you're a kid.

There it was, like a remnant of a state of mind under suspension.

I realized looking at it that I've always liked to see children's bicycles just ditched ... wherever. And even moreso watching them practically fall off their bikes to ditch them when they've gotten where they need to be.

Kickstands ignored. Twisted however it lands.

There's too little time to waste on formalities when it comes to consuming all life has to offer after you've gotten wherever it was you were headed to.

(It's probably, somehow, why I like long, winding gravel driveways with a pair of wheel-worn tracks split by undisturbed grass. Just however).

It makes me want to figure out if I can remove the kickstands from the devices in my life.







... and this is us with Mason Jennings.