Inspired by Ordinary Elephant
Jan. 22nd, 2025 09:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
just_cydInspiration for this came from Ordinary Elephant's "A Few Words for Wednesday #111: Left" which is linked below. I believe you'll need to be a Patreon member of theirs to view it.
https://www.patreon.com/posts/few-words-for-120572898
Memories shared are memories extended. There are few tangible reminders of the growing miles racked up: tickets and payments are digital, the tshirt saturation point reached longer ago than I will admit. I don't take many photos, and even fewer selfies, not wanting to spoil the moment, to out myself as fangirl, only out for tickmarks on a hit list. Miles racked up and dollars spent are the best proof I have, if you need proof.
the music rings still in my ears, months later; that chord, that harmony, the rise and fall and breath and hush and all the rough spots that get polished out of the professional recording, but make the live moment so singularly special. Those chords that transport me back to the first time I heard them.
So many moments that are mine and mine alone: Mark Kano apologizing for his voice being off, but still sounding as perfect as they did on the drive in, the only changes being the depth of voice that comes with age. Wes & Barry singing along with CSN on the musak while the Scott dials in the tuning, the night FJ had a family emergency; sitting impossibly, intimately - inappropriately? - close to Pete Damore on stage, seated, in profile, such a youthful face projecting an old soul. Crystal, across from him, expressions holding back nothing, their connection just short of palpable. John Gillespie in his infinite patience, explaining yet another nuance of a song, or instrument, or connection between people I've met, my musical tour guide, BFFs from that first 3-hour breakfast. Darren Jessee - sweet, sensitive Darren - exasperated at crowds not there for him. "Joke's on you," he tells the Asheville crowd, "you bought the ticket." the true punchline is him setting up his kit, drumming for the headliner. The Greensboro crowd, some months later, see him begin to lose his cool, begging them to give him four minutes; I think he got two.
The list goes on. The musicians I now call friends, meeting for coffee or a meal; offering emergency respite in the threat of a winter storm; telling me of a bookings or cancellations before they are announced, knowing I travel so far, so readily. "Can you keep a secret?" one asks, over our usual departure-morning breakfast. Of course; I smile and take in what has clearly been held back for too long, the relief to have a confidante visible in the now-relaxed face. "I'll share some new music with you and only you soon," says another. multiple tries to get a usable file to transfer, both cell numbers and emails shared, no hint of concern of misuse on either end. "Of course I can listen to it now," as I rush to dig earbuds out of my backpack in the hotel. I'm honored beyond words the trust placed in me. Appreciation, reciprocated, returned and repeated, as only Midwest Nice meets Southern Manners can. Mama would be proud.
My brain is brimming with such snippets, if only I could capture them and cram them into jars to pull out when the days are dark. Brainweasels try to wreck the place, but I do my damnedest to keep the memories safe and the brainweasels at bay. How can I possibly run out of memories, when they keep piling up? Will next week's triple-header somehow replace a long-past show? will I someday forget how I cried through "Landed," the second song played at my first Ben Folds concert in 2010? Can anything overshadow the brief but close connection with Darren Jessee, discussing Amy Hempel at that GA show, my fifth that year? our mutual surprise that I picked well, impressing his friends, or was it just the Buffalo Trace bourbon that bought his favor? the smiles, the small waves, the "hey, good to see you!" and "omigosh you really made the drive??" at the sight of me walking in the door of any given venue. The pride of Don Fucking Dixon talking to me from stage mid-set, introducing me to the group assembled in Cat's Cradle Back Room on a winter's night when the rest of the Triangle shut down. Him greeting me with a hug and kiss on the cheek as he breezed onto stage, thrilled that I was making the most of the crazy Friday night. life-long friends the second time we meet.
Can I turn that box full of empty Bonne Maman jars into my own little pensieve, and tuck away what's most precious to me? What shelf will be out of reach of the brain weasels until we can dial in the right mix of magic and meds? what needs to be given up to keep something new? how can I make room for the notebooks and research I'll need to get Jeffrey's story told, without losing too much of myself? Who can I trust to help me pluck my claws out of the tangled mess of 50-plus years of not living, but just existing? I'm only just now beginning to live, and I don't want to waste a minute more
https://www.patreon.com/posts/few-words-for-120572898
Memories shared are memories extended. There are few tangible reminders of the growing miles racked up: tickets and payments are digital, the tshirt saturation point reached longer ago than I will admit. I don't take many photos, and even fewer selfies, not wanting to spoil the moment, to out myself as fangirl, only out for tickmarks on a hit list. Miles racked up and dollars spent are the best proof I have, if you need proof.
the music rings still in my ears, months later; that chord, that harmony, the rise and fall and breath and hush and all the rough spots that get polished out of the professional recording, but make the live moment so singularly special. Those chords that transport me back to the first time I heard them.
So many moments that are mine and mine alone: Mark Kano apologizing for his voice being off, but still sounding as perfect as they did on the drive in, the only changes being the depth of voice that comes with age. Wes & Barry singing along with CSN on the musak while the Scott dials in the tuning, the night FJ had a family emergency; sitting impossibly, intimately - inappropriately? - close to Pete Damore on stage, seated, in profile, such a youthful face projecting an old soul. Crystal, across from him, expressions holding back nothing, their connection just short of palpable. John Gillespie in his infinite patience, explaining yet another nuance of a song, or instrument, or connection between people I've met, my musical tour guide, BFFs from that first 3-hour breakfast. Darren Jessee - sweet, sensitive Darren - exasperated at crowds not there for him. "Joke's on you," he tells the Asheville crowd, "you bought the ticket." the true punchline is him setting up his kit, drumming for the headliner. The Greensboro crowd, some months later, see him begin to lose his cool, begging them to give him four minutes; I think he got two.
The list goes on. The musicians I now call friends, meeting for coffee or a meal; offering emergency respite in the threat of a winter storm; telling me of a bookings or cancellations before they are announced, knowing I travel so far, so readily. "Can you keep a secret?" one asks, over our usual departure-morning breakfast. Of course; I smile and take in what has clearly been held back for too long, the relief to have a confidante visible in the now-relaxed face. "I'll share some new music with you and only you soon," says another. multiple tries to get a usable file to transfer, both cell numbers and emails shared, no hint of concern of misuse on either end. "Of course I can listen to it now," as I rush to dig earbuds out of my backpack in the hotel. I'm honored beyond words the trust placed in me. Appreciation, reciprocated, returned and repeated, as only Midwest Nice meets Southern Manners can. Mama would be proud.
My brain is brimming with such snippets, if only I could capture them and cram them into jars to pull out when the days are dark. Brainweasels try to wreck the place, but I do my damnedest to keep the memories safe and the brainweasels at bay. How can I possibly run out of memories, when they keep piling up? Will next week's triple-header somehow replace a long-past show? will I someday forget how I cried through "Landed," the second song played at my first Ben Folds concert in 2010? Can anything overshadow the brief but close connection with Darren Jessee, discussing Amy Hempel at that GA show, my fifth that year? our mutual surprise that I picked well, impressing his friends, or was it just the Buffalo Trace bourbon that bought his favor? the smiles, the small waves, the "hey, good to see you!" and "omigosh you really made the drive??" at the sight of me walking in the door of any given venue. The pride of Don Fucking Dixon talking to me from stage mid-set, introducing me to the group assembled in Cat's Cradle Back Room on a winter's night when the rest of the Triangle shut down. Him greeting me with a hug and kiss on the cheek as he breezed onto stage, thrilled that I was making the most of the crazy Friday night. life-long friends the second time we meet.
Can I turn that box full of empty Bonne Maman jars into my own little pensieve, and tuck away what's most precious to me? What shelf will be out of reach of the brain weasels until we can dial in the right mix of magic and meds? what needs to be given up to keep something new? how can I make room for the notebooks and research I'll need to get Jeffrey's story told, without losing too much of myself? Who can I trust to help me pluck my claws out of the tangled mess of 50-plus years of not living, but just existing? I'm only just now beginning to live, and I don't want to waste a minute more
