In another life I made music that a specific group of people seemed to enjoy. Yesterday I was cutting up guitar parts on a plane, and today I’m sitting in a hotel waiting to watch people watch a short film I directed. Disassociation sounds overwrought but it feels accurate. I stopped performing in front of people in 2013, and that’s probably for the best. I could never fully enjoy myself in the moment, even when I played sober the performances are spotty. I know that I played in a small bar in New Orleans because my old roommate told me I covered Smashing Pumpkins to 30 drunk college kids, I know that I played in a small town in Illinois because I shaved my beard and had a friend draw a lightning bolt on my face. I do not remember Seattle, Portland, or New Jersey but they happened. I find that those moments come easier when I’m writing alone in my apartment. I’ll look through an old notebook and have no memory of the stories inside but they’re written in my serial killer handwriting so they’re probably mine. Creativity is strange. It bends and flexes with the landscape and disappears when you need it the most. I haven’t felt creative making music since I moved to Los Angeles. I play things when no one is around, but it’s always the same chord progressions, the same beats; nothing I would show anyone. On the plane yesterday I listened to a collection of things that I recorded over the course of a couple of months, then I cut at them until they adhered to some kind of dream logic. Plane logic? Unlike everything else I’ve been working on lately, I felt relieved to have this piece finished. To be able to close the door on whatever it was. It’s nice to now be able to apply a narrative to a time that was nothing but a confusing fog of sound.