I was looking out the plane window descending into England; it’s very obviously England from 10,000 feet—England has it’s own kinds of greens, it’s own kind of rolling landscape. In a trans-Atlantic sleepless daze, but no less enamored by aerial sights of stately homes with patterned gardens, cathedrals, white sheep dotting the fields and hills, silty rivers with houseboats lined up against the bank.

From the sky perspective there are all these curiosities on the ground, ones I’ll never know where they are geographically or what they are. I’m still remembering a large body of water I saw about seven minutes from Heathrow last week— there were things zipping around, leaving clearly lined visible wakes—too fast to be a duck, too small to be a boat. What were those? I’ll never know.

I prefer aisle seats but with a window view, it’s a treat to get the rare perspective from above. Perfectly symmetrical circular silos in New Mexico and the Midwest—in my mind, missile launch sites or alien spaceship landing fields. In SoCal, the sprawling groundscapes are splattered with turquoise and aqua swimming pools; ovals, rectangles, kidneys. The view morphs into crisscrossing freeways with tiny ant-cars going in all directions, and then it’s just an endless city spilling over the curve of the earth. A window seat over Manhattan showing the vastness of Central Park flanked by precisely placed grids of avenues is also an unforgettable sight.

It turns out there’s a Reddit sub for flight simulator enthusiasts with several thread questions and discussions about what the hell they are seeing on the ground. This is where I found out the circles are center pivoting irrigation fields. They look like art.

The bigger picture is that wonder and curiosity are beautiful traits; instinctive, lively attributes we humans share with other mammals. I mean other species are information seekers, yes, but not at the level of enriching one’s self. Curiosity brings that windfall gift of thinking about something other than my enriched self. It’s a brain chatter spigot, turned off. Curiosity and wonder are a through line to youth and our inherent nature as children.

I suppose age, loss and decay are inevitable, and all the more reason to cherish what we can hang onto.

Speaking of mammals & people..the idea of “negative bias” has been popping up here and there, in one of those funny life things that sometime happen where themes recur. Do you know what I mean? Like someone will mention a person, idea, place, whatever…and then the same thing keeps appearing in conversations or sightings, or just repeating however. I always notice, and like, when that happens.

In case you’re unfamiliar with the term, negative bias is the human tendency to take in the bad with more impact and weight than we do the positive. Back in the day, when fight/flight was pretty much a 24/7 deal for us, it was a matter of survival to be attuned to danger and threats. It’s believed that evolution didn’t eradicate that hardwired technique of getting through the day—instead it modified and became that oddity whereby one fixates on the one bad review amongst hundreds of good reviews, or is bothered more by the person who dislikes you than the many who adore you.

Negative mindsets in general are best avoided. I’m going to share with you a very simplistic action I took many years ago—it still blows my mind how effective it was. I think a therapist suggested it. Place a rubber band around wrist. Every time you have a negative thought, pull it taut and give yourself a thwack.* Behavior modification at it’s simplest. I did this for a few months and it absolutely altered my thinking processes. I popped myself whenever I noticed judgemental thoughts, negative assumptions, those “with my luck, blablabla” inner dialogs. Anytime I noticed negativity. Sometimes I think I might be due for a tune up with the rubber band.

*this isn’t medical advice, ‘tis anecdotal and not meant to diagnose nor treat mental health disorders or chemical imbalances.

I’ll write some Coachella scoop but there’s not a lot to report. The shows were pretty much professional performances—by that I mean it didn’t sound great on stage. We didn’t get sound checks and the crew doesn’t have loads of time to set up and dial stuff in. If I’m going to have a really great gig, and really have fun onstage, it has to sound fantastic. I have to be able to hear everyone’s vocals and instruments at the right levels, everything blended. My guitar or bass, and the drums, have to sound incredible. When it sounds great, I have the best time: soaring and thoughtless and connected to the present and the music and the audience and my band mates.

When it doesn’t sound good onstage, I’m a professional. For one thing, I assume that what’s being heard out front is better than what I’m hearing. For another thing, I don’t complain or try and get it right. That’s a vibe killer. I mean if there’s absolutely nothing in the monitor I’d have to tell a tech to put me in there, but it would be done quickly, between songs, no stopping the show. Being a professional means playing my best, relying on my knowledge of the songs and focusing on locking in, finding the sweet spots—even if it’s not ideal. And it means looking like it is ideal. I owe it to the audience to put out an energetic, competent performance, no matter what I’m going through inwardly. Afterwards, if it wasn’t great for me, I let it go, I forget about it.

When it’s ideal, when it’s great, I don’t forget about it. I’m high for a long time—even a week to ten days of high. That’s a lot of high from 70 minutes of activity. Really good ROI. This can come from a club gig or a huge concert, doesn’t matter. If it sounds great on stage and I play great and I’m getting the same sense from all the musicians in the band—this is the big reward, this is why I say I’d do it for free. It’s fun and powerful and connected and it’s not like anything else at all—satisfying, and proud, and complete.

So neither the Roxy club date or Coachella was that for me. The second show, weekend 2 at Coachella, there was a somewhat better stage sound, but nothing near like I want it to be. The reception and accolades for all the shows were phenomenal, which is another good reason to let it go—I can get residual goodies from hearing how great everyone thought it was, and while that’s not quite as good as having an ideal sound onstage, it’s something. It also helps knowing that there’s three more to come. Any or all of them might be that magic. And if not, it’s still a great job.

I can’t imagine the money that’s spent on everything at Coachella. The catering tent for artists and crew is Gatsby level incredible; non-stop buffet lines of delicious food, masses of tables spread out like a canteen, and decorated like a top tier elite wedding with foliage and flowers and inflatables and lanterns. Same with the artist area, which is a bunch of inter-connected enclaves of star-trailers with outdoor sofas, tables, umbrellas. I’m sure I was surrounded at both places by Spotify’s top streaming artists, but I didn’t recognize one single person. Charli XCX could’ve come sat on my lap and I wouldn’t know. At least at Cruel World I will know if Nick Cave is next to me at catering or if Shirley Manson sits on my lap.

That earlier landing returned me to a home I will be leaving in less than a month. I’ve already started the detaching process, I no longer look for the charm or reasons to love it here. While I was in LA, in the midst of losing Clem and playing Go-Go’s shows, I rented a house in London, courtesy of a couple new pals who went and looked for me and sent videos. Kind of reckless, but I felt very unsettled knowing I had to move and nowhere to move into, and I’d looked at dozens in the months before.

Yesterday I went to check out my new home for the first time and was a bit underwhelmed by the house and overwhelmed by having to move as soon as I get back in May. Being underwhelmed and overwhelmed at the same time is as draining and exhausting as one might imagine. When the current tenant told me I’d have to remove the reception room windows to get my sofa into the house I was ready to walk. But I’m committing, and given the way time slides by in a blink, I’ll be looking and moving again in a year. Where, I don’t know. The direction of motion indeed.

Clem continues to be in my life, through friends of his that I didn’t know who have reached out to me, and are now my friends. But losing big chunks of my supply of close, history filled, reliable and certain love is a jolt. I had a pretty good supply for awhile. And it occurs to me I will not live long enough to build those kind of 40+ year relationships again.

There’s work to do. I hope readers here are hanging in there and managing in these very uncertain and unprecedented times. I’m going to operate as though we will land on our feet and regain balance! Thank you as always, for your time, interest, and subscriptions which are of great support to me.