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I was almost eleven weeks away in northern Europe - in Iceland,
Norway, Sweden, England, Ireland, Scotland - and came home
to a newly-renovated apartment. It's uplifting to have a new
bathroom, clean vanilla and blue colours, and the kitchen,
while still small, has gleaming new tiles and sink and counter
tops. I hardly recognized the place, especially with so much
of my stuff packed away to make life easier for the workmen.
In a way, it makes for a gentler transition, living out of boxes
for a week, the way I've lived out of a suitcase all summer.

One thing that has held body and soul together all summer
has been music, and for the past day and a half, since being
deposited here again by silver birds, rental cars and taxis,
it has been music that has been the constant. From Iceland,
Emiliana Torrini. From the Faroe Islands, Eivor Palsdottir.
From Norway, Mari Boine and Motorpsycho. From Sweden,
Lars Winnerback. From England, Eliza Carthy, a neighbour
of Karine Polwart's in Scotland now, and Martin Simpson's
latest record. From Ireland, Declan O'Rourke, The Frames,
some new (to me) Christy Moore cds. From Scotland, a
signed copy of Karine's Faultlines, and copies of two earlier
works of hers, with Malinky and a duo called McAlias. I
have played bits of them all, laying back on the couch in
a discombobulated reverie, awaiting the arrival of balance,
the diminution of the effects of jet lag.

Music tunes the soul. The most miraculous music of all,
for me, is the unfinished revolution that we began out at
Svensrud farm in eastern Norway, home of my friend,
Magne Hellesjo. There, over five days and nights, Magne,
Harald, Leif, Mike Beck and I assembled the flesh and
bones of 14 of my compositions. I have a roughly mixed
copy of our work, and it continues to baffle me how we
got so much goodness on record in so short a time. I am
a little in awe of the generosity involved, and look ahead
to adding the finishing touches to these songs.

I am up for work, my first day back since early June. The
old rituals come back, but they tiptoe toward me now, as
if knowing that more than the apartment has changed.
I stand outside in my housecoat, smoking a cigarette,
coffee steaming in the cup in my hand. The sky looks
different here now. The trees look different. Red and
tired and beautiful, the roses reach through the picket
fence, as if to say hello, welcome home. A lone bird is
singing high in the cedars.

DL