4am
heat is radiating from every square inch of skin. i wonder, if there were enough light to see by, that i might not be releasing steam. it's the heat of a healing wound; my entire body has become an injury against the night. i couldn't say about the cause. it could be the whiskey i'm sipping straight from the bottle. it could be that i haven't eaten in 36 hours, during which i've had four hours of sleep. it could be the conversation. it could be too many cigarettes.
it's only been a few days since i sat on this porch and said to shari, "i just need to meet someone to be excited about. i need to make a new friend." i have no illusions about the man sitting next to me; probably i'll never see him again. i have no intentions for the man sitting next to me; if i made a move, either outcome could probably ensure that he'd never be back. but i like that he is new and i like that he is here, and he listens like everything i say is worth hearing.
12am
things are winding down at the theater. it's my favorite time of night, when everyone has filtered out save the staff and the bands, the lights are up and the floors have been cleared of couches, of equipment, of the swaying crowd of 20 somethings.
it's an old theater; the floor declines from the soundbooth to the stage, with nothing but a few old snags of bolt to interrupt a streamlined process. our chairs, they all have wheels. those without backs are the best, they move more quickly and offer less resistance. it feels like tradition as we line up against the raised platform on which rests the soundboard, prepare to push off for an audience and race to the bottom. i know what is coming, but each time i scream and giggle in tandem, thinking i'll hit a hole and tumble forward or stop too late, stop with my face.
i reach the stage last, but am unscathed by my loss. it is a hot, humid night and the rush of stale air against my face is enough to make me smile. i am full of an incongruous delight, the same that faces me at the end of each night i spend here. sometimes it is the music itself, a reminder that there are still people who create beautiful things for beautiful things' sake. sometimes it is the people i've met, or simply the taste of good coffee. tonight it is all of those things, my body responding to a freedom it had been craving through the duration of five stressful days. my head and everything below it were rioting against each other, looting and throwing homemade bombs around in loopy anger. nothing in my being had paused to say thank you for days.
i return to the top of the theater by pushing my legs, sandals sliding against the smooth concrete but even uphill and without traction i make good time. behind me someone yells "watch out!" but i do not turn around quickly enough to avoid collision with the man standing behind me. he halts my progress by putting hands on either side of my chair. my physical surprise should, but does not, prevent me from thinking quickly. he bends his face to my ear to mock me playfully for losing the race, and i lean my head back against him - partly for the thrill of feeling my long hair catch against his stubbled cheeks and partly so he will be able to get a nice, long breath of me. i know how good i smell.
it's so brief it almost hasn't happened, but something has changed here. and this is all i'll allow myself, this brief moment of contact.
8pm
i sit behind the table that serves as concessions with a book open in front of me, waiting for music to start, waiting to stamp hands should someone venture through the door. it's still beautiful daylight outside, no sign of the swelter that will mark the evening to come and i sit warmed by the sunlight as i read. i've worked maybe six shows but my instincts are already sharp, and the slight change in shadow makes me look up from the words on the page. he walks in tentatively, looks around and heads to me, asks "do you work here?"
i tell him where he can park and put his equipment, trying not to stare and trying not to be rude. there's something about him - tshirt so thin it may as well not be there, five or six days unshaven, long hair curling around his face. i have him pegged immediately, which says more about me than i'd like to admit. oversexed rock god, is what i think. this guy's gonna be a complete douchebag. he's barely as tall as i am, a fact i won't notice until several hours later when i realize that facing him, his eyes are at...eye level. he's larger than life, and i am unfair. the preceding days have left me feeling unwanted and unworthy, and it's my insecurities - admittedly few - that judge this stranger more than anything else.
but no matter my intellectual understanding; i am on the prowl tonight, for what i'm not entirely sure. i am full of prideful frustration and unspent agression and looking to disabuse myself of all this negativity. the moment, my fight-or-flight response to being intimidated by something i can't have, passes quickly but the feeling remains. i forget about him, dismiss it all and return to my book, all 400 pages of which i will read sitting outside the front doors while four bands play inside to my distracted ears.
one of these days, i'll learn to be grateful for these things that come along just when i need them, rather than being angry that each moment is fleeting. one of these days i'll stop imposing. in my adolescent anger, i moved too quickly and upon being proven wrong i was completely disarmed. situation normal: i'm an asshole.
23 August 2006
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1 comments:
i wonder if being grateful for the lucky moments comes naturally for anyone? i have to learn it, too. i sometimes have a way of seeing only the "bad" and the "good that doesn't last"
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