Sometimes in the evening, I feel very young. The sky drops its light and I close my eyes against it. Then again, in conversation, I’ll speak a spectrum that encompasses more than it should by all rights allow. It’s as if the years in passing have grabbed my head in their hands and forced tongue upon me when kissing their daily blessing.
Melissa brought me out tonight, darling woman that she is. We compared histories, romance fallacy upon romance fallacy. I think we come out close to even, though I’ve yet to properly lose friends over any choices, only lovers that I might have discarded in the long run anyway. It was interesting, hemming the realization into everything that here is a new person I might talk with, hold hands and sit in sand with, our feet splashing in allegory and mythology and amateur music. The Fugitives were the night’s entertainment. CR and Barbara and Brandon and Mark Berube pounding words into us, throwing piano man rhymes at the audience like a net to catch our hearts with. Song and music, beat box and microphone yelling. It was good, they’re always good. There’s a glut of brilliance on that stage, I thought, and I can’t imagine how many people of this caliber talent must be playing little restaurants and tiny little coffee-shops all around the globe even just tonight. There must be thousands. It irritates me that these are never recorded, I said, and my nails scratched the tabletop before I looked up and started to sing along. I knew almost all the songs, all the skeins of poetry made available to us, the performer’s glory familiar and hard/easy to hold.
If you only watch two video this week, make it these:
McCouture for Women
McCouture for Men
The way that other cultures re-mix ours is simply delightful. Also, the brain, it balks.