After Friday's rant I had fully planned to go get stinkin' drunk at the Wildhorse - it's our office party destination of choice, and it seemed like a good idea. But I didn't. I only got a coke to drink, nothing remotely resembling TAB (tasty alcoholic beverage). I still had fun watching all my work buddies get on the dance floor and bump their booties. Then we left to get Heather, went home and relaxed for a few hours, then went back out into the wind and cold to see a show at the Ryman. Carbon Leaf was good (Heather got an autographed CD and a hug from the lead singer - "I HUGGED A MEMBER OF THE BAND!!!" - totally forgetting that she'd spent the entire set laughing at him because he didn't play an instrument. They did a spiritual in the middle of the set, a cappella, which was so appropriate given the location, and ended with a rousing version of "Life Less Ordinary." Grant Lee Phillips was okay for about the first two minutes of his set, then his voice just plain got annoying, and his attitude (Look at me! I'm great!) was worse. Eventually the sound of people talking drowned out most of what he was doing. We all applauded when he left the stage ;) Will Hoge was the star of the show, though. It was getting late, and I couldn't see keeping Heather out past midnight, so we had to leave early, but the four or five songs we heard were the best music I've listened to in a while. He opened with all of his bandmates crowded around a single mike, crooning "I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry". From then on, it was like watching a young Springstreen, strutting, singing, sweating from the passion of the music he was pouring out like a libation to the faithful. The only laughable aspect to me was his guitarist, who obviously worships Slash, and imitated everything from the style of clothes to his stance when playing. If you get the chance to see Will Hoge, do so. Buy his record. Support his dream - he has talent almost unheard of these days.
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
Comments