i was perched at the very top of a body of fans nearly fifty thousand strong for a show that quickly turned into the best singalong i've ever been a part of. even with the extra (security) space between the barrier and the stage, the band still managed to feel disproportionately close, pulled forward by our enthusiasm as much as we stretched our hearts forward every last inch. i got to share a nod with the guitarist, sing along with one of the drummers as we conducted each other in the repeated crescendos of a song, feel every chord of their world draw me in further. it was all so close, so vivid: each tender and virtuoso pick of the guitar strings, every vibrant shift of light, sway of body and limb. and it moved me in ways there will never be a way to string words together to do it justice. the singalong continued long after they left the stage as we collectively stretched out those final moments, a chorus of thousands repeating the final verse again and again, holding on to the last song like we'd never let it go.
hours later, standing alone in the quiet of the streets of manchester, forced by a deep restlessness to leave my concert friends (both old and new alike) at the bar, all i wanted to do was hold on tighter. all i could do was cry. they were tears of joy and full-ness strangely mingled with an abundant grief.
hours later, standing alone in the quiet of the streets of manchester, forced by a deep restlessness to leave my concert friends (both old and new alike) at the bar, all i wanted to do was hold on tighter. all i could do was cry. they were tears of joy and full-ness strangely mingled with an abundant grief.
being submerged in a concert experience is to be suspended between two worlds -- on one hand the mundane and mortal world of the crowds, musicians, and instruments, on the other, the ethereal world of transcendent, heart-expanding beauty. while neither can exist without the other, they exist so far apart at times it makes it a disorienting process to come down from the best shows – my feet are never sure where to land.
i should know better by now, but it's always a painful surprise to realize that there was never anything solid to stand on in the electric world of sound and light and color i've just passed through. the sky that opened up, whatever its geography or palette, is just a passing gift -- a transient, breathtaking place for the heart and spirit to soar around in for a few precious hours.
the grief is the backlash of the severed worlds. it is the mourning of an artist not painting or writing or creating as i should. watching the artists before me living their own purposes so clearly, and to such great result, manifests the tension between this vibrant horizon of their work spreading out before me and this creative drought i feel so caught in already rushing back toward me, filling my vision again as the music and lights fade from view.
but even as i try to ignore it, i've always known these nights are just a borrowed ticket to the creative gods that so patiently wait for my full attention.
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a few nights before the show, i had a rare dream about the lead singer, thom yorke. i've known for years that these dreams are never about him as a person, but rather that he is a stand-in for my creative self, an embodiment of that deep, internal part of me i have often felt so distant and at odds with. something i have found i put at an unreachable distance from myself -- as untouchable as a celebrity on a pedestal.
in this dream we stood together at the rail for one of his shows watching the opening act. i was turned slightly away from the stage and toward him enjoying the fact that we were together so comfortably. after some unspecified amount of dream-time he reached out and took my left hand in both of his, cupping it in this incredible warmth – both tangible and emotional – just holding it there on the rail.
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about a week ago i bought a journal during my travels for the purpose of daily 3 page non-stop free-association writing. a practice that i have long known opens the door for me creatively. i spent a few days ignoring it, a few others dragging myself to the paper. but it's a start. a good start.
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i'm sitting in the cologne airport right now watching the slow procession of fading light as a thunderstorm rolls in washing the world in a soft grey. sharp flashes break the spell. fog is on repeat.
some things will never wash away.
some things will never wash away.
