Kristina Stykos

I’m traveling by car crossing the country again, this time going home.

 Chicago once spelled chicagoua now a hell hole of cars human killer bees swarming around its own body I won’t drive that way again I’ll drive a day out of my way to avoid it turn in all that man-made insectual activity for words I can dream into like chippewa ontonagon chequamagon ottawa and white earth instead soak my eyes in earth dawns and plains grass and birds flocked on gravel beds and telephone wires and still water there where a mind can spread out like limbs across a wide bed longing to be down land where deep and natural silences reign hover in a state of permission to be instead of think 

 I have a lot to ponder, with this vague nutritious happiness pulsing inside my chest part ache and part wonder at a heart that’s still working some and for me not against me.  And a lot of - time - to ponder, enough so that the feelings can be smoked out but kindly, for the drive is a kindness to myself I realize that no one can take from me except the car should it decide to break down. Simple things, like his passing me in the hustle of the bar and leaning his tall lanky frame down to my ear, saying “ You’re almost as pretty as that mandola” on the first night I came to open mic at the old hotel, with my brand new custom vintage “F” model on its trial run. The memory runs alongside the rolling secondary highway like an antelope and we’re heading a straight shot to North Dakota red dirt roads empty as whistles on the right and the left and that sweet taste swimming up joining mist over corn stubble yes out here between Buffalo and Bismark I can savor my steaming coffee in the travel mug and the sun rising and my compliment from a cowboy, and make them last.

 Well, trips have their ups and downs and later I’m in a downpour looking for gas following questionable signage a little too far off the beaten path maybe I’m not so sure it mightn’t have been better to travel with someone but there isn’t much use to that way of thinking and doubling back again for some sighting of gas pumps maybe near the grain elevators or the feed lot I suddenly feel that creepy familiar sense of sinking through my own dreams however there is a closed up farm supply fill-up station with a self-serve kiosk that only looks broken so I grab a hat still I’m going to get wet anyway you cut it but I’ll take it standing up straight unflinching sort of proud-like letting the unrelenting rain soak my jeans while I hold the nozzle harder watch with forced interest the vacant sunday morning rail-yard puddles doing my part of course to let my pockets fill with Dakota water and now I’m remembering all those people who never seemed to like me back where I’m heading why would I be thinking that here in the west so far away from it - just because I’m turned east? and it is possible I won’t be able to find a decent motel before dark and I’ll be driving in this hard rain for ten more long hours stuck in the middle of a pack of trucks blinded by the spray just hanging onto my wheel for dear life and damn it mostly maybe my cowboy didn’t really like me either and that’s the one that hurts. 

 At Motel 6 the next morning no I didn’t sleep well it’s hard to sleep well when you’re trying not to touch the bed the internet isn’t working in my room either so I’m back in one of two molded plastic chairs in the “lobby” trying to make contact with some of the people I left behind it’s 5:30 a.m. and not a bad time to be next to the coffee maker smelling something other than air freshener a few other early-rising travelers are showing up on their way out here’s a fella with his young son disheveled in an honest sort of way and right on task as it turns out to get his self to a farm equipment auction before that thresher sells he’s running his hand through his short hair and stuffing it back under this hat as he says to me “you been sitting here all night?!” his eyes are wide like deer’s which reminds me most men this week are chasing deer in the woods but he seems genuinely concerned to see me here twice in the same plastic chair “I would have bought you a room if I’d knowed!” surely a perverse suggestion under any other circumstances a poor excuse for a pick up line but out here in the Dakotas I’m comforted extremely comforted by his words and his eyes and his polite rancher-boy son I can’t tell him so so I just smile and open myself to a bit of conversation and that feels good way better than being paranoid last night he would have offered to drag my heavy guitar cases for me if he’d knowed I reckon there at the far end of the motel parking lot where every shadow was a potential combination rapist/thief/meth-head.

 So I return to driving and I’m making some miles as sleepy towns wake to a clear day its not so much about dealing with conditions now as it is about getting back to pondering and looking to see what’s coming home with me and maybe what’s not or can’t like the bighorn mountains or the laughter of us three girlfriends flirting with hats indoor outdoor ten gallon and otherwise the legendary “Occidental” saloon below our hotel room labeled “Outlaw” could be we’re out on the town for one last night in Buffalo, Wyoming with a few eyebrows still to raise but mostly for me I’m just loving some folks we’ve been getting to know for the last month and wanting to get some last loving in without being too obvious about it. Behind the bar Dave’s mixing up a drink with huckleberry brandy for me because I asked for a surprise and the night is getting on and I can feel my opportunity slipping away even with my back turned. I had hoped for more time and a chance to say some things.

 But it was to be an unfinished conversation with Wyoming.

In case you were wondering the saturday afternoon ham and leek party went off without a hitch at “The Clear” route 107 pittsfield it was up on the marquee in plastic letters a phenomenon that felt too good to pass up I asked patrick if he’d work my cell phone camera course he was flattered to take charge and shot it nicely from several angles satisfied we walked back down the drive to the tavern there again the “biker friendly” sign and vacant picnic tables and ghosts of snow-mobilers unable to mount their machines and dead winter grass and the river slamming against its own banks overburdened by snowmelt off hawk mountain. In the back of the pub the buffet was going strong the grub laid out in stainless caskets the warming trays of ribs and flanks piled high and milky leeks swimming with ham puffy rolls fashioned from dough conditioners and gloppy potato salad it’s where we found bow chortling between mouthfuls he and matt shooting the shit about the night we drove off the ski mountain at two a.m. matt’s plow truck taking the lead the blizzard refilling the road with snow near fast as he cleared it and our much-awaited-for opening gig for a big name act being somewhat a let down foiled by weather with all the friends and fans who’d been planning to come for weeks stuck in their driveways at least several ridges and rivers away well if I’d had any idea to get home to chelsea that night it was not meant for it but being designated driver I’d put my mind to get at least as far as bow and lori’s house above gaysville bridge and I’d managed and revved my four wheel up that last hill rounding the bend with pride just prior to the flumping sound as we slid sideways shy of success the car now half obstructing the road definitely in the way of the town plow when he showed up minutes later and the pressure was on his running lights indicating a polite but metered idle at the bottom so I went at it rocked her cock-eyed to the drift with the determination of a bullheaded mind and the weight of a car load of expensive instruments working to my advantage perhaps anyway bow was full of pork by the time we returned and washing it all down with another pint of beer we went on stage to fulfill the promise of the marquee bringing the tuneful side to the edible fixins for one is only half itself without the other. I was so relieved next morning by all accounts easter sunday though with my children gone hard telling but to finally have a day with no rush in it and so I suggested what I like for lack of horses to do a slow car ramble this I offered my finnish friends we turned the automobile past the playschool then the victory garage the plank bridge and that gorgeous twist of water up next sharp up into the woods bobbin shop road always my first choice as imbedded it lives in my mind I could describe it in great detail each inch and the various moods of it to anyone though I’ve never had the need we took it rubber tires pulling ahead on almost firmed up muddy roads rising like a peeper chorus to the tip top and over and as ever past the ponds of your rented house the dark glimmering shine luring the eye uphill to somewhere sweet reverting time and stabbing the heart’s deep desire to traipse any woods the finnish freedom to roam a better use of the imagination and law applying to certain categories of mainly uncultivated land according to google "mountain, moor, heath, down and registered common land" and I’m sure I never see you there but it makes sense for it has always been the mythic terrain of my travels to elsewhere next we tried ourselves to the end of washington turnpike and the dooryard of the old doyle place to check out what’s left of the house and the barn and to glimpse the wet places of ramps coming along and coltsfoot brightening the wayside places past duffy’s patchwork shack the braman’s loose chickens in the road and finally down hart hollow and a spontaneous find of a cemetery with many stones marked ‘baby”.

The day began with a leisurely breakfast because Marion was always up earlier than anyone else spreading food across every inch of the large kitchen table, something we’d come to expect. Bill, on the other hand, had at the crack of dawn taken our broken down car to the village to the garage to get a jump on repairs. We were musicians after all and would be expected to slumber late into the morning after a show and be unavailable to manage the details of our own existence. Parents of musicians knew that and either accommodated it or brought shame down upon their children like rain. “What are you sleeping half your life away?” No, you wouldn’t hear that here in the Thayer household.

I was the early riser, showing up for my first cup of coffee around 9 am. Looking at Marion and taking in her typically chipper demeanor, it crossed my mind that she might have already knocked off a couple rounds of tennis. The most exercise I had gotten since we’d hit the road Thursday was my walk overland from the ski condo to the front desk to get a muffin – a distance of maybe 50 feet. Maybe add to that a little upper body workout lifting guitars in and out of the car. As musicians we prided ourselves on a kind of mental agility that allowed us to avoid physical activity that might strain our musculature and render us useless to our instruments. That included just about everything beyond tooth brushing near as I could tell.

The Starbucks is mostly guys in suits milling around. As a group, I like the combined effect of their gray flannels, scrubbed faces and silver laptops. I know my feeling of contentment has something to do with them, what they represent to me as I sit in my café chair at One Financial Center, watching and listening to heels that click smartly on granite making their way to elevators.

There are people, it seems, who are truly important. Thanks to them, I’m suspended in the illusion that I’m important too and it feels good. The world is suddenly filled with people efficiently making it run. I wish my cappuccino would last forever. I could live here in this lobby if I had a sleeping bag.

But it won’t and I don’t. And when I open my laptop, the “public network” denies me access. I remember that we’re here because someone in an office on the 17th floor of the Federal Reserve Building told us to come back later with the proper documentation. We’re not important and we’re in limbo, stuck in the heart of the financial district between its high-level transactions and coffee choices. One purchase at Starbucks just set us back about ten dollars and we’re thinking about how much it’s going to cost to be parked in the South Station parking garage for five hours. And how high the price of gas is in the city.

My hair falling heavy and unified like rope off my head, that’s what I want. Like a rope swing, a dark length of swirling joy. There had been such a swing in my childhood, tied to a tree at the far end of a neighbor’s backyard, up the creek from my home. We’d sneak there through the woods, discreetly entering the property from bushes unseen. The old elm seemed too big to be true; how anyone had tied the rope in its upper branches will forever remain a mystery. But even one jump filled life with an inexorable timeless few moments of freedom and seamless motion, the softest most vibrant green grass blurring beneath as the body flew out on the heavenly string.

That’s the way I want to feel tonight.

He hadn’t returned our phone calls, but that sometimes happened when his computer was using the phone line so we decided to just drive over. After 40 minutes navigating the familiar hills and valleys, we turned at the old bridge and wound our way up twisting roads into Gaysville. The whole town seemed perched under a bower of ancient fir trees, just barely holding on to the sides of the raging winter river. But with the addition of colored lights on the trailers and camps, the mood was festive. Christmastime on the back roads of Vermont was the best I could imagine.

We pulled a sharp left over the culvert and parked on snow and pine needles. In a moment we were clambering through Bow’s front door. Looking down into the sunken living room we found him. The television was on and they were watching the Simpsons – Bow, his dog Libby and 19 month old River.

We crossed the Boston Common and got to the Orpheum early enough to stand in line with a sense of ease, enjoying the early evening air and sociability of an eager crowd. The letter, tucked away in my bag, was quietly giving me a sense of mission. Of course I was different from all the other concertgoers - I just knew it. More tuned in, more special, more secretly wired to the heart of the excitement and its flesh and blood center.

At our leisure, we would go to the front of the line and find our complimentary tickets waiting.

His tour bus was there, parked with its tinted glass windows suitably darkened and I wondered if he was looking out, in which case I should look nonchalant but vigilant as to which side of me was best for viewing. Would he recognize me? Above all, I should look happy. Wasn’t I happy? Soon I would be soaking in the aural vibrations of his splendiferous talents and then making my way like a princess behind the curtain and backstage into the heart of his temporary inner sanctum. Naturally I was about as happy as a dog waiting for a bone. A bone of my own creation, conjured up out of hunger. The most beautiful bone of one’s dreams if you didn’t mind the fact it had no nutrition or substance. A small price to pay for ecstatic fantasy.

I would have liked to go to bed I think. But my conscience was not at peace. Phil had asked me to attend to some critical details in the final mix and I had left it to the last. It was the night before my appointment with the mastering engineer, and I was halfway to the facility in New Jersey. My brother rallied.

“Okay, let’s load this baby onto my Pro Tools and I’ll see what I can do.” he said.

Since returning from Montana life has revolved like an orbiting moon around feeding big, heavy chunks of hardwood, cut and split by our friend Mark a few months ago, into the yawning mouth of the old soapstone stove. I remember driving up north to Hardwick to buy that thing some 20 years ago, and how I drove away with it in the back of my borrowed truck forgetting to release the emergency brake; how when I got down the road a piece to East Calais, wondering what the smell was, and pulled over to assess the situation with my typical attitude of panic and naiveté, I still felt a missionary sense of accomplishment to be committing to such a noble heating unit. The pride of staying unfrozen in winter is something Vermonters harbor like a secret, guilty pleasure. Comparing woodpiles is a common form of competitive recreation. And the fact that I no longer split my own firewood is a nagging source of chagrin and sadness, which I hope to remedy someday, by once again taking up the ax. Somehow now, the non-heating aspects of life seem to be overwhelming and good old fashioned chores harder to embrace.

The view from the porch of the Farney’s settled over Malcolm like a song as he puffed at his cigarette, squinting into the late afternoon sun. This far north, just a few miles east of Jay Peak in Vermont’s northeast Kingdom, autumn was coming early and consequently, the threat of frost was stimulating food production in the Farney’s kitchen. After two days of non-stop eating and recording, Malcolm was getting ready to attempt the guitar solo of his lifetime. Croissants, vegetarian chili, fresh baked bread, potato salad, dilly beans, tomato soup and congo bars aside, it was time for him to step up and shred.

The rest of us were hard at work setting up Malcolm’s amplifier, three bodies crowded into a small room about the size of a clothes drier. We were busy wrestling the microphone into position in front of the speaker cabinet when a strange buzzer suddenly went off, not the first of many unwanted noises that had plagued our session. The short list included lawn mowers, pots and pans, dimmer switches, truck traffic, cell phones and a drill press. But this noise seemed to be right next to us. Oh, of course – bingo! It WAS right next to us – it was the clothes drier reaching the end of its cycle. Our beautiful isolation booth also had a toilet, a towel rack, a shower stall and matching bath mats. We finished our adjustments and shut the door tightly, leaving the amp on standby.

It was one a.m. and admittedly, we were drinking. “You know you’re old enough to be my mother,” he said, and I smiled, nodding, unable to disagree.

“Can I ask you a question,” he continued,” and you don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to. I don’t exactly know how to say this but … how has making music changed for you now that you’re past fifty, in comparison to, say, when you were my age?”

Roody sighed, adjusting slightly in his dog bed, and without opening his eyes, stretched his legs showing off his handsome sled dog apparatus. The small ranch house living room seemed filled with contentment including the quiet vibration of Cindy asleep in the back bedroom.

The question was an interesting one, the kind of philosophical big-picture question that I would normally jump all over but an off the cuff answer seemed to evade me.

It was back to business as usual: Cousin Steve was back in Boston playing all the cool clubs and I was in Vermont playing renewable energy festivals, barbeques and sports bars with punching bags. “Listen to this,” I said, turning up the CD player in my car so the guys could hear what was coming up on the disk. “Tell me what you think about the bridge section when they go into a jazz thing.” Patrick looked attentive from underneath the guitar rack that was covering his mid-section up to his chin in the tightly packed car. “Okay here it’s coming … here!” I let the music blare for a few phrases and then cranked it back down. “That is so cheesy, right?”

“No, that’s great, it totally works,” said Patrick. The car bounced through a pothole as we entered Pittsfield and slowed to village speed, passing The Clear on the left, a reputed hangout for bikers and roofers, and an old gas station sporting the sign “Yoga and Pilates” on the right . Our discussion continued.

“Yeah, it’s cool” Bow agreed. “Did you teach this Bruce Hornsby dude to drink too? “

Curled towards the crow’s nest window in the dark sky house, I am not asleep. It’s past midnight and the room is thick with sweat. On the walls frames of illuminated cloud flash announce the thunder as it ambles off the wide valley into our bed like confused oxen. It’s an easy conversation for power to have with something smaller. My husband has just gone off to his own dreaming. I lie alone.

These solitary summer days punctuated by one off social swirls of music or visiting - they drift, fall back towards long hot days leaning into gardens. In Vermont one never forgets the season is short. Almost oppressive by mid-summer all shades of green begin to merge and the distinctions between plants so pleasing in spring are gone. Sightings of Dionysus walk among us, begin to fatigue us, make us long for cool water.

I’m in the Ford truck driving with my mother, having steadied her up into the cab earlier with promises of a typical landscaper’s adventure. We’re idling in a construction zone miles from town to the point of turning off the engine. It’s a slim road aiming south just past Ward’s Garage and I’m glad to see he still waves to me even as he’s made enemies in town. As near as five years ago I would’ve been eager to share some of those rural politics with my mom, seeing as there’s little else to do sitting here stopped in our tracks. But today I’m silent and uninterested in my own stories, equally uncertain that my words would have any entertainment value, much less staying power.

The startling sight of snow covering red maple buds, daffodils and freshly cut earth today pulls spring’s lift downward and inward again. I pace the dusty wood floors in boots, restless, almost unable to bear the burden my life has become. Bedraggled strands of hair hang in my face, a symbol of my anger and struggle to be seen and hidden. In such a frame of mind, there are no gigs, there is no money, no one likes me and I can’t strike a chord worth playing. This would be a second adolescence twisted almost tighter than the first because I should know better.

The Venetian mask maker draws his brush slowly and intently across the face of Pulcinella and then with similar economy of movement lifts his eyes and looks at me over his glasses. Perhaps he’s curious to divine my origins but with equal likelihood I am an unwanted intrusion. Seated on a high stool behind the front counter he continues to paint, his eyes glancing up now and then as I move through the shop in silence. The huge noses of il Medico della Peste hang limply from rafters, pointed downwards towards my head. Here in Venice a sense of hidden deity is pulsating - from the massive weathered wood and iron clad doors of locked palazzos that stand sentry-like over damp, cobbled streets; from the hurried, sharp footsteps that echo and fade, detached from any person. The dusty windows just beyond a neat row of smiling Gianduias suggest indirect sunlight – sunset must be just now caressing the dying city's perimeter. I’ve come a long way across an ocean to unwittingly stumble over this threshold into sadness.

He emailed me - again. “Hey k, Lou here. I’d really like to help you set up those speakers. Give me a call when you get a chance. All the best, l”

My elbows on the console, I twirled a long tendril of hair around my finger and while continuing to stare blankly at the screen considered pulling it and for that matter all my hair out in one smooth, well defined motion. That would be the truest expression of how I was feeling on this bleak day in February, sitting alone in my studio, surrounded by knobs and wires. How had I gotten into this technological nightmare of always needing to know more than I did and having to be smarter than my clients at every turn? Had I strapped on my skis even once this winter or tuned into nature? The answer was clearly “No” because I’d been too busy trying to convince myself of my qualifications to be the professional that I am and tormenting myself to keep way ahead of myself as if running a marathon. I was about to crack.

After the rock and roll spectacle was over, a caravan of cars headed single file out of town and turned right up Braintree Hill Road, red taillights disappearing and reappearing in the blowing snow. Not far from here in the craggy hawk haunted hills my old music partner was probably burning the midnight oil with her chocolate brown fiddle, flying through the night on ancient Cape Breton tunes. How many winter nights like this one had I had joined her, settling in next to the wood stove with my guitar, her big old dog at my feet and her husband quietly clanking pots and pans in the kitchen stirring up some dinner for us. Warm memories but life has a way of driving wedges between friends in the oddest way.

Here tonight, positioned between the life saving blow of my hard-working car’s right and left heater vents I was again a refugee following new friends to an unknown destination.

He was having a rain stick malfunction and finally sixth take I got out my rain stick. “Longer isn’t always better&r