So today, was not what I thought it would be. As though it ever could be to be begin with.
Yet still, what I had vaguely schemed the first time I attempted waking this morning was far off from what was. But looking back, I see it was all with the theme.
I saw the same band twice this weekend. Right up front in a small venue. Sweat on the brow sort of stuff. Both times fed my soul. Both times, different for what they were. And more importantly, this all elegantly sandwiched a fruitful band practice in my own humble abode. Because every once in a while, you need to out whiskey your bandmate. That way, he falls asleep in your living room right around the time another companion summons you to the bar three blocks away. Fret not, if they be a true friend, that sleeping beauty bandmate will wake up again just in time for your return. That chaotic swagger, boisterous and pronounced ye return, and just in time for another drink and Van Morrison tune. You will, undoubtedly, also go in depth of the magic of Macy Grace. Hugely underappreciated musician.
Or so goes my bro-downs.
This weekend was thought up to be selfish, and yet it ended being far from it. I have this terrible habit. Were I to become convinced that a good time must be had, I aim almost all efforts in the direction of that endeavor. And whether accident or divine, the folks I know oblige the gusto.
I had my moments. Friday night blues turned rambling. Saturday produced hangovers become the sweaty dancing of Sunday night. And then the longest Monday morning ends just shy of midnight.
The vines reach beyond all that ‘self’ stuff though. An argument could be made to the potential existence of that ‘something’, that otherwise cosmic vibration that in my experience brings the same soul of different modes together. What I mean to say, is there might be people who have that magnetic energy. That some people attract certain other people in this mutually inexplicable way.
In short, I know the best people. And despite having to apologize to the barback about how much a mess my friends made with the popcorn, I wouldn’t trade them for something neater. I hang with the cats who play music barefoot. I like the people who dance with eyes closed. I like the people who want more- possibly more than a human can know. But they want this all the same. So much so, it becomes need.
And we are a bleeding lot. We ache and hurt more than the sedated masses. And what a younger self may have thought of with glory has become our dependence. And as goes with addiction, the same thing stops working. And when the creativity ceases inside, we reach out. Knowing full well that the holes in our soul can only be fixed by the person with all those holes. Ourselves. But it is in others we find new perspective. And though it is often hearing the words of someone else, there is another way. And to describe it would be crime, but some way, somehow, in the giving of any kind of advice to a dear friend allows a reflection what cannot be got by different means. You see how to fix yourself within the answer you give to an amigo’s inquiry.
And we can’t always be so attentive, but when we are, we are. And hours seem shorter behind you, but so vast when they are upon us. These eternities we find. With all sorts of people. All over the world.