I am in Cleveland sitting in a filthy hotel room and yes, it’s my own damn fault. A mess is the sign of a creative mind but in this case I was host to just a plain good time, spanning a week upon returning to the road.

If inanimate objects are witnesses to our actions, keeping us honest, received and remembered, then the queen sized mirror (beveled edges, massive frame) in my foyer only knows how unique hotel nostalgia can be. When I look through the reflection I see a guitar I see singing I see music. I see glass I see tattoos I see rain. I see closeness I see laughter I see dreams. I see fresh flowers sitting next to my bed.

A young woman struggles out of that bed at 6am and here the mirror’s memory fogs, because as soon as she shakes her locks and gulps a glass of water, she is out the door, swollen eyed and unresponsive, sliding into the back of a limo---6am. The mirror will not remember her at the mic in seven different radio studios doing on-air morning interviews and playing anything in arms reach. In fact the young woman herself will not remember---6am.

As a consolation prize, I do however remember the Cleveland Indians slamming the Kansas City (Missouri!) Royals from the spectacular seats Elizabeth, Khalid, Mark Allen and I jim-jawed at Jacob's Field Tuesday nite. Free tickets from the sports station had me dancing flamboyantly and suggestively for two home team home runs, and it could be said that The Wave never dissipated on the shore of our stolen seats---hands high at the slightest suggestion of incoming tide.

Or clearly how it feels to be a month out of shape, just enough to really appreciate how physical this show really is. STOMPers together again, pounding in, sinking the stage and jamming that hands-and-feet grove clear through the upper balcony of this 2,600 seat house. I am in Cleveland performing and after a month lay-off my human abilities have peeked opening nite. I am enlightened through group mind, I am listening to our music like it was my own heartbeat, I am making eye contact with each cast mate every four bars, I am responding to the expressions on the faces of the first five rows, I am reacting at top speed without conscious thought and I am sweating rhythm, bruising muscles, catching breath, and appreciating every second of it.

But now I am in a dirty hotel room appreciating that I am about to loose stuff because it is exactly when your hotel room is this kind of mess that this loosing of stuff happens. I don’t have a lot of stuff and I don’t like shopping, so you can see, this loosing stuff thing isn’t really an option. In an attempt to avert the inevitable, I am now sorting piles labeled My Shit and Hotel Shit (dirty towels-Hotel Shit, rose oil-My Shit) as I fit my life possessions back into a black suitcase. I’m not feeling very creative as I strategically place the seaweed in it’s respective Shit Pile.

I remember what a plain good time this mess was and contemplate if my ideal love is a state or action as I glance the mirror’s reflection.

I see dancing.

It is an action.

Pittsburgh tomorrow.

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