It is with these fake antlers that my new quarters feel complete. A place where my raccoon prints can call home. Uncertain guitars begin to rise from their cases.

The quiet leading up until now is all part of a perpetual clumsy adaptation.

Because the world is turning much faster these days. Out the new windows, I sometimes see my elderly neighbor hugging the ground to hold on.

The circling stars know. Maybe, just for a moment, they’ve decelerated enough for me to speak.

In the next few weeks, albums and tours begin to come back into focus. The life inside of life takes a familiar first breath.

Because it’s about time to head out for another spin.

Last night, I was in the middle of my business. Making sure not to step on crickets coming up from the drain, making sure the spiders weren’t descending onto my shoulders. And a huge crash came from the living room.

Into nothing. The RE-20 mic I love to sing on most had fallen over, smacking the conga on the way to the ground. (that’s right, I said conga)

The nights up here are perfect monuments to endless unknown. In that, the nights are also mind-bending. And this is after hours of hearing hooves and scratches while reading about parallel worlds. Shapeless creatures creeping all around me in the moonlight. Always with the wind howling, the owls owling.

I don’t know. I think it has prove I’m not entirely useless.

Because in a bad situation, you can count on me. I’ll be able to bust out at least a couple distracting punches while the rabid maniacal mountain lion eats my face. While you run for safety.

(photo by K.B. — yes)

Funny how these albums drag out. Years of our lives shrink and spiral down into easily applauded/criticized/loved/hated/ignored mp3’s.

*** cue PJ Harvey’s rendition of Is That all There Is?: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0ZUAorP0b4 ***

We close the current chapter tonight. I’m not sure whether it’s phase five or fifty. All I know is I’ve got an insane caffeine headache and a Rip Van Winkle beard.

Oh yes, there’s more. There’s always more. You can tell from the death grip Chris has on his guitar.

But we’re going to give letting go a shot and officially tell ourselves we’re halfway there. Bring on the palm trees, cold beer, sparklers and beach songs of the misbegotten and their victorious bathtub battles.

Apologies for invoking the language of renaissance faire enthusiasts. But in days of yore, our tours were sometimes accommodated in less lofty lofts. Where we’d trade Montell Jordan verses and draw organ donor murals on the first one to nod off.

Hotels were by and large beyond our means. Most creature comforts were held out of reach. And still, we kept the quest alive.

This picture was taken ages ago in apartment over a skate shop in Kensington Market, Toronto. I actually don’t remember why Brian, Dan and Trevor chose to spend their free time in an eternal slumber party. I guess sometimes there are no limits to love. 

I’ve completely conquered the frailties of my once busted leg with the help of a domesticated lion.

Because my prismatic pessimism made me way more lame than any of my defective limbs. And letting it all hang out over the internet does not impress potential associates of love.

Also. There’s really nothing worse than being laughed at by a cat.

Beyond the frame of this picture, the clouds and leaves are whipping up around the windows of our hideout. We’re taking it higher with Stevie Nicks, The Thermals, Shocking Blue and going all the way.

Staring. My new vocation is staring.

It’s not a choice. These glassy thoughts slip through my fingers before I get a chance to put them onto paper.

So my beach party is more of a test of wills than a wild celebration, a standoff between me and the unflappable ocean.

I’m fairly certain about who wins and what happens in the end. That doesn’t mean I won’t give it my eyeballing all.

For Esme - with nothing but love. 

Our Pre-Order for the Matt Pond “Get Well” bundles and grab bags is now available! 100% of the money from these limited edition bundles will be going towards paying off the heaps of medical bills that Matt Pond incurred after suffering a broken leg on his fall tour.  We greatly appreciate your help and wish you a very happy holiday!
http://altituderecordsstore.limitedpressing.com/

Cabin days are here again. Back to where we can zone out the external world. Backwards down into our muddled minds to sort through songs and their ultimate yard sale shapes.  

Yes. It’s time to bring another album to life. And then hopefully put it to bed. The constantly recurring album cycles are like small lives inside of lives. Or relationships. Or tours.

Or seasons.

Even though it’s not officially winter, it feels it. Wordless cartoon clouds materialize when I breathe, naked hands cannot resist hugging one another.

And still, I hear echos of an earlier fall, even all the way back to the end of summer. The woods are filled with fur and feather. The pines creak barely perceptible lyrics from almost a hundred feet overhead, up above the last tough clusters of green.

It’s two-bit time travel in the back of my brains, back to our last tour with Rocky and the unbreakable crew.

This morning before we started recording, I got rid of the golden chair made for me by my bandmates. It was beautiful while it lasted, while it was necessary. But I stand when I sing now. And when I slip and fall in the forest alone, it doesn’t even make a sound.

Let me tell you, it feels good to once again stand on two semi-solid legs and drink a beer in the shower.

Without grabbing onto the rod and ripping down the curtain, without being lathered up by a friend, without the constant fear of falling, smashing my head open on the porcelain edge and being found naked and alone by an unfazed hotel housekeeper.

And yes, that is the king of beers. Thank you very much.