Snowblind

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. The truck was adrift in its ascent up the banks, and Thom cackled every time he cut the wheel. A Marcy Playground song trickled out of the radio.

“It’s stunning out here, even without the sunlight.” Thom said. He went on to describe the fluffy ponderosa pine trees that towered over the road. A mountain face caved in the sky to the east, and unending forest rolled out to the west.

“Are there any houses?”

“I think so,” Thom mused. I heard him lean over the steering wheel. “I see lights way out in the woods.”

His hand coasted over the rough leather bench seat and found mine - my favorite way to drive. The radio cycled through a few tracks of poppy bands I didn’t recognize. Thom gets an odd hair for stuff right before we write our own.

“Oh,” He sounded dismayed.

“Are we here?”

“Yeah,” His hand fell out of mine and squeezed my knee. “I wish you could see it.”

“Wish for something realistic, like more radio time.” I smirked.

Thom shifted the truck into neutral and stalled the the engine.

I waited while he packed everything in; clothing, food, a bass, two guitars, my keyboard, three microphones, and all of the cords to make them useful. He’s a maniac when it comes to moving and storing equipment. A real stage crew lifer.

I started to pull my stuff on when I heard him walk around the truck. I popped the door open and swung my legs out into the chill, and heard the banter of two watchful owls. They seemed to be sparring with whistles of wisdom.

Thom snatched both my hands and guided me to the ground.

“Careful.”

“I’m following you, dude. You should be careful.” I advised.

Thom snickered. His hot breath filled the space as we walked.

The cabin was toasty with a roaring stone fireplace. Every room smelled like cedar and… cranberries? Di-vine. I don’t need vision to know that Thom picked a place with purpose.

I surrendered to the sofa and listened to the stillness.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re not moving.”

He stood and sat with me on the couch. “I’m just taking it all in. You look right at home, Juni.”

I waited for him to kiss me. He always kissed me when he said my name like that.

We settled in and made the place our own. I tucked all our clothes away into the bedroom closet, and Thom chopped vegetables with a perfect 4/4 rhythm. The sweating onions and garlic only added to the essence of the retreat.

I like handling all the fabrics in our space. Folding the laundry is really a simple task, but the uniformity makes it doable for me. Most things can hang, and the things that can’t get folded. The things that get folded are all generally the same shape, so the motions are similar. What is boring to some becomes an Olympic sport to others.

Thom cooked the same stir fry he’s been making for fifteen years. I’ve never asked about or seen any part of the process, but I could list every ingredient in order of use. This is one of those times that beggars can't be choosers.

“Dinner is ready, baby.” He warned me.

“It was ready ten minutes ago.”

He laughed and threw a hand towel in my face.

The food served as a means to an end. We spent the entire day on the road out of Phoenix, on a quest for natural isolation. The wilderness does something to the human senses that is akin to alchemy; we transmute into a more refined self. When I’m alone in the woods it’s almost like I can see.

After filling our tummies, we rinsed the dishes in the sink.

I used the faucet to spritz water in the direction I thought Thom was standing.

“Nice shootin’!” He exclaimed with a Texan drawl.

Direct hit.

“Do you think we should hook it all up tonight?” He asked me.

“I think we should play tonight.” I leaned on the counter. It was a good height for the keyboard.

“Feeling inspired, are you?” It sounded like he was looking out the window.

I shrugged. “I just know we have a lot of work to do."

All creative processes are different, but they’re all kind of the same, too. They all have a similar end goal; something finished. A sketch, a song, a story, a pose – all calibrated to the same artistic coordinates. The avenues taken provide the subjectivity, but the product remains part of an objective canon. No one is confusing a drawing for a book, or a song for a movie.

Thom hardwired everything and staged a mini studio. He passed through the stringed instruments and tuned them to his liking, and I arranged my equipment like a chef would arrange her ingredients. Everything within arms reach, in a precise order, in a precise way. The French call it mise en place, or everything in its place – this is so a chef can keep cooking in her station, even if she were to become blind. Lack of sight never slows you down if everything is exactly where you left it.

We warmed up separately until it sounded loose. The professional cadence wears off and the jam band hero comes out. My fingers were like wet noodles across the keys. Thom tried to follow but couldn’t find the chords yet.

Jamming eventually led us into a song from the old album. We switched vocal parts just for fun halfway through. It’s the kind of tune that people call for at every show, and even got us a spot on late night television.

“Your world naked,

all black and blue.

In the morning

please be me,

so I can be you.”

Thom writes angsty lyrics, but I love the way he belts them. We came together in a crashing crescendo and skipped the last chorus. The melody progressed and his guitar bars left me in the dust.

We chased one song after another in a pursuit of harmony. His voice climbed into soaring new heights, and my fingers explored the nooks and crannies I forgot existed in our music. Samples turned into standards and new networks of sound entangled our motions. Thom was breathless by the end.

“That felt like a whole different track list.” He said. His mouth was dry and sticky.

“See? Aren’t you glad we turned that out?” I ventured. Composing is an art that can change minute by minute – some musicians swear they never play a song the same way twice. “We got a new perspective on songs you wrote ten years ago.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Thom cleared his throat for his best Jersey accent. “Location, location, location!”

“Bingo, Daddio.” I winked and fired off the finger gun.

Setting plays a huge role in what an artist can and cannot do. Edgar Allen Poe may have been the boldest romantic writer in all of American history, but his setting never allowed for that. He watched every woman he ever knew succumb to tuberculosis, and over time, became the most prolific horror writer to walk the earth. What we feel in life is what we create, even if that feeling is just a fleeting moment in a tourist rental.

We took a break and helped ourselves to a box of apple cider donuts. Thom said the glaze helped his fingers slide up and down the frets.

“Alright, I have to pee.” I held a hand out.

He hesitated. My hand lingered in the air like that of a referee.

“Did you hear me?”

“Don’t be mad, alright?” He started.

I winced. “Don’t tell me this place doesn’t have a toilet.”

“It does, it does, it does,” he promised. “It’s the only downside.”

I arched an eyebrow and waited for him to finish.

“There’s a sink and shower inside, but the actual toilet is an outhouse.”

I sucked in a razor breath and nodded along with the new information. It almost made me smile with irritation.

“It’s one little sacrifice for a perfect escape. This place is beautiful, Juni, and exactly what we need to get our groove back.” He snapped his fingers and bumped his hips into mine.

I tilted my head and feigned to see anything. My face cycled from shock to awe as my dead eyes rolled over an interior I couldn’t experience.

“I don’t need the same things you do, Thom. I don’t need to drive fast or live crazy. I need convenience, dude. I need a safe bathroom at the end of the hall, not the end of the driveway.” It came out more pointed than I intended.

“I’m sorry.” Thom wrapped me up in his arms and let out shaky breaths. “I’m sorry.”

I didn’t blame him, I just wanted him to understand we’re different. The values he ascribed to visual beauty justified his logic. My handicapped justified mine. It wasn’t anything to be critical about, but more a crossroads of lifestyle. Everyone is a creature of habit – not all of those habits overlap.

Thom had a habit of socially farting.

I had a habit of drooling in public.

They’re adjacent, but they aren’t really the same.

“Don’t be sorry. I get it.” I explained. “Besides, I should be sorry.”

He shook his head. “Why?”

“Because for the next three days,” I took his hands in mine. “I’ll be peeing in the sink.”