Dearest Adam,
Well once again, we just can't seem to get it together, can we? It's been 10 years and eight concerts, and after all this time, we still haven't been able to make it happen for us.
There are things you remember and things you forget. Let me remind you: Our first opportunity was when you played my college all those years ago. I listened, aghast, to the message your publicist left, saying she had you on the other line if I wanted an interview for the local city weekly. But alas, I wasn't answering my phone; too bad. When 30 days passed and the message was automatically deleted, I wept for all the times I've tried to tell myself to hold onto these moments as they pass.
I moved on. So did you. Then you played an hour away from my new home, but the same publicist claimed there were too many "scheduling conflicts" for you to chat with a writer from a simple music Web zine. Oh, but I knew better. And so did you, Adam. So did you.
And now we've let our lives come between us once again. You, the Rain King ... you had to fly to Europe to "tour" and "play huge festivals," and I meanwhile went vacationing down to Hollywood, where they are gonna make a movie 'bout the things that they find crawlin' round my brain.
Here I am in the city you used to live in, eating and sleeping, hanging out by the pool doing some reading, some writing, some dreaming and some dying. I've been hanging around this hotel for way too long. I'm in a courtyard surrounded by green-blue curtains atop green-blue pumice under blue sky, but surprisingly with no green palm trees around, and I'm too far inland to catch a glimpse of a green apple sea. Another chance for a meaningful connection lost to circumstance. Round here, you're slipping through my hands.
Oh, but we've had our moments. The first time I ever saw you, when you opened with "A Murder of One." I realized I don't want to waste my life, baby, and I left with renewed determination. Determination to do exactly what I wanted in life.
I wanted to be a part of the publicity machine. You have said you never looked like yourself until you wore dreadlocks, those same dreadlocks critics have coupled with your whiny voice and oh-so-wittily attacked since 1994's August and Everything After. Well, I never felt like myself until I put words to notebook to Microsoft Word screen to the websites/newspapers/magazines that had intimidated the monkey piss out of my former self.
And through it all, you have always been my No. 1 Guilty Pleasure. But you've also always been my No. 1 Guilty Pleasure that I haven't felt the least bit guilty over. The thing is, though, could I ever handle the possible consequences of making "us" work? What if I said the wrong things? What if it ended too soon? What if I completely blew it? What if, once it was over, I realized that nothing as good as you would ever come along for me again?
I scan the questions I have for you and just want to pave paradise and put up a parking lot, with myself underneath in response:
Question: One dominant theme in your lyrics is dealing with insomnia. Have you been sleeping better since you moved from LA to New York City?
Question: In "Mr. Jones," you sang, "When everybody loves me, I'm going to be just about as happy as I can be." Of course you were being sarcastic/ironic/prematurely jaded, but what do these words mean to you four albums later?
Question: Why are you such a sellout, you Coca-Cola-swilling, American Express-flashing, Shrek 2-soundtracking, Mandy Moore lover?
Adam, your stomach is getting bigger, your hair is getting grayer, and I guess you left me with some feathers in my hand. Again. I'm not sure if we're scared, in different metaphorical-not-literal places right now, or too completely wrapped up in our own individual existences to take a chance. But considering everything, perhaps it's just better this way. We need to agree that neither of us is ready to move forward and take this relationship to another level. Maybe, someday, things will line up for us, and I will finally and at long last Get. An. Interview. We will talk about your music. We will promote your upcoming show. I shall fulfill my task in the publicity machine, and you will fulfill yours. We will complete each other. But in the meantime, I'll always smile fondly when I hear you out on the radio, starting to change.
Love always,
Julie
P.S. – Call me?