I play in the bar room and try to inhabit the characters whose stories can cast the spell that stops a sentence for a little while and can’t quite be shaken off when the bell rings and the doors get locked again. I also try to inhabit my own skin and memory and the stories I know, so that I can make these others here full of their own stories and memories know that I am laying something on the table for them, trying not to tell them any lies while not having to tell them the whole truth.
I play in the living room with instruments by the fire and I like it when a recording sounds like I played in the living room with instruments by the fire. But I also like it when a suspicion is created that the living room has slipped its moorings and is being carried on inexplicable currents to indistinct destinations where the shapes of the coffee table and the lamp lose their mundane character as they become foreign objects in different surroundings.
I am full of contradictions, just like the rest of us here, but I’m not trying to resolve them all now because the tension between each side of the story seems to be roughly where the truth of it resides.