the sound of the rain, filtered through the window screens and bouncing off of the wall next to my overimportant writing desk has an eerie scraping undercurrent to it. I don’t think I’ve ever in my life had a disquieting feeling about rain. that’s one more thing to grace the ‘things I’ve experienced’ box.
last night, I was sitting at a concert and –so enraptured was I by the music– whipped out my phone to record a snippet for e-mailing to myself. I was intrigued today to find that my recording device’s lack of sophistication resulted in what amounted to the aural approximation of about a thousand unsettled wasps in a middlish-sized hunk of lead pipe….what I imagine that might sound like, anyway. I’ve never had the distinct displeasure.
I digress–I wasn’t sitting at a concert so much as I was lying in the same room as one. ten yards back from the stage, up near the ceiling atop an eight-by-eight sort of crow’s nest, I had the best view I think I have ever boasted. when you are above the band, the music hits you before the images do and it’s enrapturing in a really organic way. didn’t hurt that the floor beneath my stretched-long body was thrumming with everything it had, and the music found its way straight to my chest before it was run from the ground up through dampers like knees and hips and pesky things like kidneys, the greediest of all filtration devices.
the most interesting sensation was the thrumming of my uterus sans the regular postcoital recovery method. thaaaat business was crazy and enlightening after a fashion all its own. i think I’ll see more shows from the air above them while lying on my belly. somehow. don’t worry about me, I’ll work it out.
other things that romanced me last night:
+ when I pointed out to Wes that he’d likely need more clothes (“It’s always freezing in there, man,” I relayed to him while giving him a cursory nod of the head) than the overalls and tank top he had on, he fished around in the back seat of the car for three seconds; he then brought out an orange-and-brown puffy vest to sport over his beat-in Liberties. he looked, in a word, fuckingamazing.
+ the contrast of the bass player’s so-shiny-it-could-be-pleather cherry red instrument against his softly-plaid ivory/tan/tender blue trousers. hot damn, hot damn
+ the bow that the guitar player pulled finely and precisely across his les paul standard (thank you, oh mighty gibson, you are one thing america can still jut its chin obnoxiously out about)
+ the influence of tool and dream theater liberally sprinkled with some geoff tate-styled vocals that pushed up through what these boys were extracting from their respectable musical abilities
+ my sudden and inexplicable (but thank-you, o ye magical slumberforce) ability to sleep, deep and dark and unmoved, for six to seven hours at a stretch.
hey, by way of closing here is some really bad poetry for all of you wot like that sort of thing:
and now, let us speak of pretty things, dainty things
let us speak of things both wild and oily
let us speak of the indefatigable and the shamed
then we’ll dress our beds for ceremony
the pomp and circumstance of sleep that ushers dreams
shows, grand plays, about the tentative way we view reality
and the pitiable cries of them as we fall once again
stumbling on the morning sunlight and open thirst
of the freshly awakened, robbed and mourning.