We're not that different, you and I. Controlled the way we are by the tastes that cross our lips, the scents that catch our noses. We howl and bark when the people we love are taken away. We're overcome by the simplest of needs. We eat our food too fast. And we always pull on our leashes. Because, well...fuck you is why.

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There is a fountain in the hotel. Sometimes I sit on the stone ledge and toss pennies into it. And I think that if I believed in wishes, I'd make one. But mainly I just like the action of tossing the pennies and watching the water ripple as each one hits the surface and sinks. The little plunk, plunk, plunk of it. The way I can cause this series of events to unfold. And the slight variations from one throw to the next. The hopeful anticipation it brings: that this time I will see something different.

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In the other room, Monica is naked on the bed. When I lean close to the mirror, I can see her in it. She is lying on her back and Honey is beside her in a curl. She pets her with one hand. Her other hand is folded over her stomach. She says: "I don't think you enjoy fucking me."

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Whatever. Here's what I know about music: I like being a little surprised by it. I like playing with people and feeling the pull of that thing you're doing take you where it wants you to go. And tapping into the energy, on stage and off. And just feeling a little awed by it. Letting the sounds rush over you. The sounds. Drowning out everything and forever. And feeling your heart race because you're not sure where this thing is taking you exactly, and it may drop off the next cliff, but it'll be one hell of a ride if it does.

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The thing is, even when it's right in front of you, sometimes it's not entirely clear what it is you're dealing with. People surprise you. Characters surprise you. And fetching papers doesn't always bring the results you want.

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It's in these early hours that both Mind and Body are a little on edge. Scared and mistrustful when it comes to familiar things. The floor fan. The light switch. The bathroom sink. Silent things seem suspiciously animate. Quiet things seem downright rowdy. And loud things seem...goddamned ferocious.

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I've been washing clothes for a woman that used to wash mine. And I've been helping her put them on right after she comes out of the bathroom all inside out. And it makes me remember one of her favorite stories to tell used to be about the time I put my rain boots on by myself at daycare. And how I came stomping out to the car all proud and smiling and with the boots on the wrong feet. And how when I got into the car, I said to her, Mom, I put my boots on by myself. And how she said, I see that. She knew I fucked it up. But she never said anything. It probably wasn't the first time she did that. It definitely wasn't the last. It's good to have people you can make mistakes in front of.

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If I wanted to be an expert at rollerblading, and if I believed Malcomb Gladwell about achieving expertness, I would have about 9,997 more hours of rollerblading practice ahead of me, give or take a few minutes. In those hours of breath and sweat and flailing arms, my body would gradually get more familiar with the sensation of gliding on concrete. My sense of balance and timing would adapt to the reality of wheels. I would be able to anticipate dangers quicker. My awkward, jerky motions would turn into smooth, confident strides. It would become less an exercise in careening, and more of just plain exercise. Muscles in my legs and core, muscles that before were weak and unused, would get stronger and bigger. Also, my brain would grow new white matter. Myelinating is the process of forming new connections in the brain, new white matter. And in the process of becoming an expert at rollerblading, I would myelinate like a motherfucker.

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