My wife, Sharon, and I started with nothing when we got married. I was driving a 1902 Pinto and eating off a card table.
If you ask me, when something extraordinary shows up in your life in the middle of the night, you give it a name and make it the best home you can.
I fell in love with Boston, so hopefully, I'll be here for a long time.
The house begins to be a home. The unfamiliar places are beginning to fold the familiar objects into their keeping and to cozy them down. Objects that swore at each other when the movers heaved them into the new rooms have subsided into corners and sit to lick their feet and wash their faces like cats accepting a new home.
I've never really thought about settling down anywhere. I like to keep moving.
Los Angeles has been great to me, and I have a home there, and I'm so lucky I get to do what I do for a living. But I did not go down to Los Angeles really even with the intention of staying.
When I got home, I was trying to figure out how to be home. Like, be home in a sense that had nothing to do with music.
The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of deep grief is making a home there.
