[E-mail]

TO: hellbox@teleport.com

FROM: jrc2000@lycos.com

SUBJ: [no subject]

DATE: June 14, 1999, 10:05 a.m.

Dear Andy,

Greetings from SURF’S UP! Internet Café. I’d have emailed yesterday but the place was closed. Sunday. Small town—almost everything closed. The day unfathomably long. Not sure how to explain it but time feels different here, now. All this unencumbered time, so large and formless I can’t figure out how in my usual life I not only filled time but RAN OUT of it. I mean there was work, of course. And time with you. Time w/friends, time alone, time reading on the couch, going out for food. So much time spent taking things out, using, putting back, cleaning, fixing, ugh. Practice time, writing songs, rehearsing. And then TOUR time. Hours of useless time in transit or waiting. Waiting to arrive, waiting for sound check, waiting for dinner to come, waiting for the audience to show up, waiting to start the show, waiting for the opener or the headliner to finish, waiting forever at the end of the night to get paid, to leave at 2 a.m. with an envelope of cash—time slashed up so no piece of it was actually usable.

But now, it’s just me and time. A totally different time. Like that Tilt-A-Whirl shook me like a cocktail and poured me out into a different place AND another time. You and Portland and home are on the other end of this long highway, but you’re also on the other side of time. A time. So far away.

The only time not going slowly is the clock at the internet café. Have to sign off or they’re gonna charge me for the next 15 minutes and I’m low on $. But I’ll check again this afternoon or tomorrow a.m. If you’re not going to take my calls at least WRITE ME.

Love, me

PS: Might not be able to actually leave today—I have to take care of one thing before I head back—will explain later