So much has changed since March 3rd, 2020. On that day, I was set to embark on a solo songwriting tour in northern Italy, departing from the island of Sardinia in my grey Opel Corsa hatchback with my labrador, a guitar, and a bunch of sound gear. Together with my bookers, I hemmed and hawed, wondering if I should still head up to Lombardia, a province that later became a “red zone.” Less than one week later, on March 8th, the entire country went into a national lockdown due to the global pandemic, one that would last for months, and I’m grateful now that I decided not to go: me and my dog would surely have been stuck in the north, with no option to return to Sardinia, under a lockdown in unfamiliar territory with no anchor point.
But that thwarted tour left a space—a hunger, a craving—to travel, to share my music, and spend precious time with my dog, Nira, who is one of the great joys of my life. This is difficult to do safely in the midst of a global pandemic! And thus, “Me, My Dog and My Guitar, Take 2,” was born, the seed of an idea I hope to grow, nurture and cultivate over the next two months of winter lockdown in New Mexico, “wintering” as I have been alone inside the adobe walls of my Albuquerque casita.
But that thwarted tour left a space—a hunger, a craving—to travel, to share my music, and spend precious time with my dog, Nira, who is one of the great joys of my life. This is difficult to do safely in the midst of a global pandemic! And thus, “Me, My Dog and My Guitar, Take 2,” was born, the seed of an idea I hope to grow, nurture and cultivate over the next two months of winter lockdown in New Mexico, “wintering” as I have been alone inside the adobe walls of my Albuquerque casita.
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The idea is this: travel, alone with my dog and my guitar, to a series of lesser-known National Parks and Monuments in southern Utah. I will hunker down for three weeks in a cabin, live in, near and among these parks, teach my classes remotely during the week as a professor at the University of New Mexico, and, on the weekends and evenings, spend as much time in the outdoors as possible, learning to read the light patterns, unique characteristics, smells, sounds and sights of that particular park. My partner, teaching overseas, has referred to this trip as my own desert solitaire. In many ways, I think he’s right. Right now, this solitary desert trip is the voyage I can do, and I’m not at all sure when I’ll have the luxury to do something like this, in the middle of a semester, again.
Normally, my inspiration for songs comes from people, cowrites, and daily interactions in the community I live in. These things, in my current universe, have all but disappeared for now: what happens if I turn my attention away from people and, in the spirit of socially-distanced artmaking, toward the exquisite beauty of the outdoors, instead? How might these parks speak to me, in the form of songs, stories, melodic fragments and poems, and how might I then share this place-inspired work with others?
Normally, my inspiration for songs comes from people, cowrites, and daily interactions in the community I live in. These things, in my current universe, have all but disappeared for now: what happens if I turn my attention away from people and, in the spirit of socially-distanced artmaking, toward the exquisite beauty of the outdoors, instead? How might these parks speak to me, in the form of songs, stories, melodic fragments and poems, and how might I then share this place-inspired work with others?
As a former seasonal Park Ranger working in Parks on the Navajo Nation, I believe our National Parks are precious. I also know relatively little about the beautiful parks to the north and in Utah, specifically. So, this feels like an area in my own backyard, so to speak, that I’ve also undervalued. In addition, right now, our National Parks are under siege, financially, and many employees have been furloughed as a result of the pandemic. Bringing some visibility to these parks under duress, emphasizing and sharing that beauty with others, feels like it’s a small thing I can do in this moment where there is so, so much we cannot.
To be sure, there are also lots of fears. Will I be able to write, and the proverbial songwriter’s question: will I feel “inspired”? Will the self-isolation feel too intense? One way I will address this is through allowing myself to write unfinished songs, place-based fragments that are written in that place, and thus, are “done for now,” because they are a product of the place that inspired them. Thus, I am saying “yes” to what might not feel finished yet, to replenishing the artistic well for now, but also perhaps for later. It is a privilege to have the mental space to even consider such a journey, with so much in flux in so many American lives at this moment. This is a combined product of my own set of privilege, both inherited and bestowed after birth: my own economic and skin-color privilege, and the fact that I have a job with more geographic mobility than most.
To be sure, there are also lots of fears. Will I be able to write, and the proverbial songwriter’s question: will I feel “inspired”? Will the self-isolation feel too intense? One way I will address this is through allowing myself to write unfinished songs, place-based fragments that are written in that place, and thus, are “done for now,” because they are a product of the place that inspired them. Thus, I am saying “yes” to what might not feel finished yet, to replenishing the artistic well for now, but also perhaps for later. It is a privilege to have the mental space to even consider such a journey, with so much in flux in so many American lives at this moment. This is a combined product of my own set of privilege, both inherited and bestowed after birth: my own economic and skin-color privilege, and the fact that I have a job with more geographic mobility than most.
This is the framework, and this is the journey. In my truck, with my dog and my guitar, I’ll be living this particular artistic question. Everything feels fragile, is fragile, and I want to honor that by being present in the best way I know how. I’ll be leaving on February 7th, and will remain in southern Utah, at the mouth of Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument, and then at the entrance to Capital Reef National Park, for the remainder of the month. I will keep a daily journal, will be masked at all times, and will tread lightly.
Whether you know this part of the southwestern United States like the back of your hand, or whether you’ve never been to the US, I invite you to come, virtually, on my songwriter’s tour, where I’ll write songs instead of performing them, fed by the awe-inspiring natural beauty of America’s national parks: I’d be honored to share the journey with you.
~I have already had some precious interlocutors on this journey who I’d like to acknowledge at the outset, among them: John Parish, Gregg Daigle, Meredith Wilder, Raquel Rivera and Mary Roaf. Can’t wait, y’all!
~I have already had some precious interlocutors on this journey who I’d like to acknowledge at the outset, among them: John Parish, Gregg Daigle, Meredith Wilder, Raquel Rivera and Mary Roaf. Can’t wait, y’all!
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