Gavin appeared on my messenger for a moment to describe work today.
Goth moment: Hanging upside-down 25ft above the stage listening to old Nick Cave and rigging a petal drop for Rose petals and I cut my hand but have to finish rigging so blood and rose petals are raining down in a soft light center stage to a perfect sound cue.
I am intimidated by the sheer wonderful that exists in every moment of our beautiful world.
I want to be part of it, somehow, I want to spring forth and create.
As another odd messenger aside, the Joseph boy I was with in Toronto came on-line yesterday and asked if I would consider attaching myself to him again, in that girlfriend-boyfriend kind of way. We haven’t seen one another since the year 2000 and we talk on-line perhaps once every six months. It was a rather odd request, a non-sequiter in our conversation, but strangely not one I mind. “Might I be your Toronto boy?” has a certain respectful charm. I believe it would be revivifying our older arrangment, the one we let lapse, where “when in Rome”. His town, my town, they’re across a country from one another, but airfare can be cheaper than expected. I laughed delightedly and told him I would consider it, reminding him that my home will always be open to him. I dream of his hair sometimes, covering me in the darkness like a red black cloak. I’ve never met anyone with the same colour eyes. Beaten gold, purified and bred with the sun. His laughter matched and he was shy in the shower. I think it might be the only time we were naked together. Everyone should have one perfect summer, a time with lightning and strangers and love. This is why I go home with people, this is why I talk to strangers. The sudden possibility of people that scar you and burn with everything meaningful. They were musicians, with them I sang.
Rowan’s thing is tonight at the Havana. It’s also Al Mader and R.C. The show starts at eight, we’re meeting there closer to 7:30.