We are wintering in a city I no longer recognize. San Francisco struts mockingly across the bridge, flaunting its facelift and its newfound wealth, as it slowly creeps across, promising to envelop the side of the Bay I call home into its ostentatious fold. I bide my time, each renovated house as sand in the hourglass, signaling my time here is coming to an end.
Let the new tech-gold miners cast their hopes and dreams amidst this net, as they live in tents hoping to climb high enough up the ladder to pluck the promised fruit. No, that life is not for me. I made my choice long ago, and as a result, the road is more home to me now than any place I know.
So I bide my time. I spend my days creating layered songs in our recording studio, weaving together strands of musical beauty from musicians far and wide, cobbling together rent from whatever we can find.
As Portals enters its final phase, something is ending. I taste the dregs of my life here,and I wonder what is next. I know that song will bring it, whatever it is. I know that there are many more adventures on my road, but I don’t know what they are. I suppose if I did, they wouldn’t be adventure!
It is strange to realize that you are perceiving your life as no longer your own, but a veneer over what is real. That is how life in this city feels to me now. It no longer reflects back to me my inner landscape, my values and priorities, as it once did. Home is an extension of our innermost soul, I have always thought. This place has been that to me, my entire life. Now? I don’t know. Only that being on the open road, singing songs to people each night, opening up portals of beauty and wonder and magic for people as we go, is the closest thing to that feeling I currently have.
All of you, whom we have sung and played for, and will sing and play for again; when I look out and see your faces, that is when I feel at home.
You are my home.