It's Sunday morning in the kitchen, mid winter and I'm waking up after another long night in the studio. As I type this, sunlight falls thru the window across my hands and outside I can hear birds singing to one another even over the hum of the washing machine in the other room.
The door out into the backyard behind me hangs open and every so often I'll feel a slight breeze wash over my back, the same way that summer lake water lazily laps up against your legs hanging out over the gunnels of a canoe.
Still haven't put a shirt on yet. Getting the coffee water going first this morning was much more of a priority.
Depending on where you are in your life, the word Sunday (typically reserved as a day of recharge) will conjure up different images, thoughts and smells.
For my parents, Sunday is a day to be spent in the mountains together with a wicker backpack, some matches and a pot of tea.

For my friends up north in Jackson Hole, Canada and Montana, Sunday is catching the first chair at the ski area, headphones deep in your ears, eyes hidden behind tinted goggles.
In the past for me, Sunday has been everything from a day to catch up on chores around the ranch, to my long run of the week. Airing out sleeping bags on the clothesline in the back yard and waking up early to fulfill morning radio and press obligations in Milan Italy with
The Gotan crew.
L-R Me and Philippe Solal of The Gotan Project onstage in Paris
Emilie Lee photo Brighton UtahWhat does Sunday look like to me right now? I'm not exactly sure. Alot of what I plan to get done, depends on what the creative process demanded of me during the week with of working with the guys.
My new proximity to them (
them being the main reason I'm out here), has allowed us to collaborate faster, easier and looser, but it's also given me a new cityscape to adjust to. I'm still finding "my" trail running spot. "My" breakfast taco spot. "My" routine for recharge.
Pete McNeal
Dave Wilder
Gabe Nelson
Bram InscoreThis past week for example, I've been in writing mode, walking in circles around the sun room, my eyes open, their focus soft, the thoughts behind them shifting like a rope swing extendeing way out over a river rushing fast.
Bram and me worked together at his spot in Echo Park, but I've also been shuffling between studios in Culver City, Hollywood and Santa Monica, my sleeping schedule married to phrases I've been farming, each laid like train tracks out in front of the other, gathering speed towards their shared destination: the end of a song.
My schedule has been all over the place, which is maybe why this Sunday feels slightly anticlimactic. Each day, I get up in the morning and catch up on the news via podcasts while I'm eating breakfast.
I have a NO INTERNET rule before for the mornings until after my pen has hit the paper for my
preparatory writing routine so THAT MEANS NO
facebook,
myspace, craigslist or hotmail. Adding this rule has had a HUGE impact on my output. Don't think I'll ever own a
Blackberry.
Immediately following comes 4-6 focused hours at the bench with my rhyming dictionary, notepad, laptop, what ever book I'm reading and water bottle, then a quick break for lunch, and another 3-4 hour push till dinner.
By then, I'm playing well and my voice is warmed up having sung all day. Hopefully I've snuck a 30-60 minute workout in there somewhere (crucial to the process). All of this, lays the ground work for the nights work.
Main writing room guitar L-R 1964 Silvertone Jupiter, Gibson 335, Collings 000, Steve Reynolds 17" ArchtopIf there happen to be roommates in the house during the day (which because of our rotating tour and recording schedules there haven't been) than I work outside in the garage, the doors closed. I can't work around anyone accept for
Jacquire,
Harris or my dog Tractor. Around my writing spot in the garage are empty boxes, piles of book and
Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. Lime trees brush against the outside windows.
The outside of the garage my backup writing spot

If noone's home than I work in the sun room which sits adjacent to our kitchen. Plants sit on the floor, along the walls stand rows of guitar, conga drums, paintings and candles. I keep this room sacred, no eating,
"inter-netting", DVD watching, so that when I enter it, I know my purpose for what I hope to achieve between those walls clear as day.
My main writing roomBy now, the street outside is picking up, my coffee cup is cold, time to get going. I wish more than anything that I was with some close friends who understand my jokes, bundled up on a ridge somewhere the back country, skis and snowboards all skinned up, sweating beneath our layers of down and polypropylene running errands around town to pick up lumber or return a piece of gear
Paczosa lent me, staying long enough to try out some of his newly roasted coffee beans.
I know that day will come though it may seem a long ways off and that what I'm doing now, is helping to turn the dream into a slow motion reality. Between now and then there are so many adventures to be had, so many faces to know, places to go.
Think I'm going to go drive down and check the surf, do hang the laundry out to dry, pick up some groceries, go for a road bike and make split pea soup.
It is winter after all.
Luke
Laura Crosta photo