notes from the road

started from home, now I'm here...

I’m sitting on the concrete floor of the foyer in Des Moines. I drove 10 hours to Nashville a week ago, jumped on the bus, and we’ve been going hard.

six down, four to go.

it’s nice to be around encouragers. I wish I was more like them.

maybe I will be someday.

people have been so kind.

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I feel bad putting off a follow-up to last week’s just bc you know God doesn’t mean your art doesn’t suck. I have most of it written, but I still have a few mental planes circling and it felt wrong to do rush delivery. one at a time, and wisely, they will land.

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the concrete is nice cause I brought my long board and it’s smooth as bumpy glass. which is nicer than glass because some contour is interesting. and if I fall while playing guitar it’s not likely to shatter. though the guitar might.

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potholes and rumble strips have made it hard to get a good night’s sleep. a week in, my nervous system is mostly convinced that we’ll live.

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shared humor is one of life’s great joys.

there are very few experiences that give birth to more in-jokes than a road trip. imagine going on a roadtrip with an AI robot… now, do everything you can to keep that from happening.

we gave the driver the nickname “Old Rumble Strip”. it’s not that original, but it is a good deflection from the energy that otherwise emerges as a tense guffaw.

Luke Skaggs & I have managed to pass on some legacy phrases, such as it hit me right in the shondas.

last night we conceived of a plan to book a world tour through every Springfield in the world. there’s at least one Springfield in 34 states, with some states having as many as 5 Springfields. then of course, many countries in the greater Anglosphere have a Springfield or two. imagine the pure mental bliss / strain and potential psychological distress / unforgettableness of screaming THANK YOU SPRINGFIELD!!! every… single… night….

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the bus sleeps a total of twelve persons, but there are only the nine of us, plus Old Rumble Strip. two deep, three high on each side. I chose the back left middle. if I am lying on my back and I bring my knees up into a ball, sometimes they hit the ceiling of my sleep chamber. I do not usually sleep in a ball so this is not a problem.

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playing a short set is harder than playing a long set. at worst, it could feel like an interview where you never get a real sense of each other. but at it’s best it’s like someone coming by with a sample platter and being blown away by the flavors¹. and hopefully craving more…

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The experience of beauty is the experience of some form of relief from time. — Jan Zwicky

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I am grateful to join a tour for once and not route and book it from scratch like I usually do. there is an insane amount of logistics that go into touring and bringing people together. what a gift to share these moments with gathered groups of people who often know no one else there that they’re about to spend the next couple hours with. and what an absolute honor, both to be asked, and then to hear from so many people how my little sampler platter resonated in multivalent and profound ways.

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I lost my headphones in DC. Rosalía lost her faith there apparently².

I’ve missed them, bc the private pleasure of headphones is one of the great joys of the scurrying introvert on the go.

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I’m grateful to get to talk to Lane and keep in contact every day. [insert heart eyes]

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lots of you have been asking what I’m reading on the road (this is not true). I’m reading My Name is Asher Lev, a collected works of Tagore I found at a used book store that has some works I’ve never seen elsewhere, and the First Nations Version of the Psalms & Proverbs.

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a young girl bought her first CD ever from the merch table. another said they were gonna buy a used boombox on fb marketplace. it gave me pause, as I thought CDs were dead. but I’ve been seeing more and more people making choices that push tech further away, a reclamation of our autonomy, of our attention.

respect.

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my expectation in reciting poetry as part of my set was that it would be tolerated—let the man read, honey, he’ll be done soon… there there, don’t cry… to my surprise, it has been embraced. I chose to recite from memory one of the new poems I have worked and reworked so many times. I’ve shared it here before. it’s always curious sparkle in my brain when poetry gets a voice and plays through someone else’s imagination with its private resonances and rhythmic ebbs and flows.

that they are received at all is an exquisite joy.

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your best is not enough. you were already loved.

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seeing old friends on the road is a relief from the constant movement and novelty of place and schedule. I spent a few brief hours with some of our oldest friends.

shared time is one of life’s chief richnesses—do not take it for granted. we are such lovely, frail things.

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our day off in Chicago also gave us the opportunity to explore the city and walk the twisting hallways and galleries of the Art Institute of Chicago.

here are one billion photos I took:

Paris Street; Rainy Day - Caillebotte (1877)

Vétheuil - Monet (1901)

Water Lily Pond - Monet (1917-1919)

Bust of a Woman - Cordier (1851)

Gigantomachia - Etruscan (3rd-2nd century BCE)

Pardon in Brittany - La Touche (1896)

The Destruction of Pharaoh’s Army - Jacques de Loutherbourg, II (1792)

plaster of La Frileuse - Jean-Antoine Houdon (1783)

The Song of the Lark - Breton (1884)

The Crucifixion - Zurbarán (1627)

Q: any questions / curiosities regarding tour?

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thanks for being here. I write weekly sharing poetry, songs, musings, thoughts on creative life, and hopefully some encouragement…

my store is here. my collection of poetry, Snowmelt to Roots, is available in my shop as well as my music & other merch. and to listen to my music, go here.

if you’re interested in having me out for a concert, a talk, a workshop, etc., please write to contact@zachwinters.com. some fun new concert announcements here (more to come).

with gratitude,

Z

1. this is what I honestly hope your experience is

2. sorry not sorry for repping this record—this album is choice.