Haunting the hospital, I walk barefoot down quiet hallways. Together we go in circles. This door, the next door. We hit the button and they swing open like prophecies. The cold sound of planes traveling overhead can’t touch us here. This is life. Chilly floors, small milky plastic cups of ice. All around us are other lives. Recovering under different names, other paths to guide us by. Some of them are happier than I am, some of them more depressed. Me, I’m trying to be content. Pictures out the window, a thousand thousand directions, every one thinking they have something to do, knowing the faces of their parents more than I do. Dreams about my father lately. Running away when I’m asleep from the violence, the danger. Springtime. The petals falling from the trees.
I’m booking a trip to Santa Monica again. This ruins all my concert plans, I’m torn. I can stay and drown in music for three days straight. Share a connection with people here I love, or I can go alone on a train to Cinco De Maya in Santa Barbara, see Ashes and Snow, then dance in the glory outside under starry skies next to the ocean with hundreds of people I’ll never get to know. Either option is grand and a little bit terrifying. If I don’t go south, I’ll miss the show. If I go south, I miss my favourite music. This is my last chance to go. Operative word is chance.
Who wants to buy some tickets? I’ve got TV on the Radio for Saturday May 6th, ($17), Sunset Rubdown & Frog Eyes (w. a member of Wolf Parade) for Sunday May 7th, ($10), and Secret Machines for Tuesday May 9th, ($16.50). All are at Richards on Richards. Depending on responses, I’ll likely decide tonight which way I’ll decide.
I actually met the Wolf Parade fellow on the street yesterday. I saw him coming and said, “I love your band,” as he walked past me. He looked startled, said thank you, and generally acted stunned. We had a short conversation, “Well now you’ve been recognized on the street it’s like you’re a real rock star.” When I said I had a ticket to his next show, he managed to brighten even more, “You’re coming to Coachella?!” Out of my range, I said, but made a note of it. I suppose they’ve Made It now. He made sure to shake my hand before skipping off down Davie St. It was a small thing, but it made me happy. He was so surprised that I suspect he’s going to tell more people about it than I will.