ruidoso pt iii
ruidoso pt iii
When we finally make it to Ruidoso, Bradshaw and his mom, Terry, welcome us in. She tells me she had a dream of a group of male deer and one female deer standing in a sunbeam on its lonesome. I wonder if she is making this up, it’s so sweet. We give her a plant we bought on the road, a little succulent. She thanks us.
When we get up to our cabin, Bradshaw shows us around. It’s perfect: there is a big living room space and three rooms for us each to sleep in. We sit on the couch and tell stories for a while like old friends, because, I guess at this point, we’re just that.
It seems like just yesterday that we met Bradshaw in our ill-fitting suits at the music networking event we attended back in 2016. Me, with my scraggly beard and acne, Sean, drunk as hell, and Brendan, using words he’d heard me use, but each in the wrong context.
I realize something: I am so fucking proud of them.
Our process is so dialed now, it feels like breathing. Everyone speaks the same language, knows where each others strengths and weaknesses are, how to highlight the good things and cover for the bad. It allows us to, for the first time, be artists—channel how we’re feeling, what we see, and own it, embody it.
As soon as you’re not plugging holes in a sinking ship, you can can start turning it in the direction you’d like to go.
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