Last night, I ventured out to see Kevin Devine at South Paw in Park Slope. While I was watching him play, after having just consumed a meal made up entirely of sushi and chasing that with a glass of dry white wine, I imagined writing something spectacular about his music and the show. I imagined creating new words and aligning them just so in order to take people there with me after the fact.
And wouldn’t you know, I don’t remember the words I came up with. I just don’t remember what they were anymore.
I knew that I would forget them all by today. Last night, I thought to myself that I should become more like the girl in Kicking and Screaming (it’s not every month you get to link to it twice). She carried a pencil and a notepad along with her everywhere she went. She took life notes to use later. “I should become more like her.” I thought. —This fictional character that nobody knows about.
But I left my orange notebook at home.
(A few weeks ago, actually it was on New Year’s Eve, Missy, Toby and I were watching Freestyle. During the film, they brought up a “Rhyming Dictionary” It was then we realized that Jay didn’t come up with it out of nowhere.
But I do actually have an orange notebook. It has nothing to do with Rhyming.)
Last night, after Kevin finished singing and I dropped my words, I spent the rest of the evening (well, my evening, they continued out after the curtains closed, and there were actually curtains) talking with the violinist. Her name is Margaret White.
Margaret plays violin with Cat Power usually. She has a dog and a cat and a car and she lives in Brooklyn. She’s probably the nicest person I have met since returning to New York City. I could have talked to her for hours more. And I hope I get that chance to do so soon.
Truth is, I’m a little sad today and I’m not sure why. I fear the old Michele stopped in for a visit—the one who I thought we left for dead in San Francisco. You know, the girl who walks around feeling somewhat troubled and writing about it? Her. She’s visiting. And while I truly enjoyed the show last night, I fear that it has brought back an old familiar feeling; I should be further along than this.
I wish I could go back and find the words I dreamed I created last night. I want people to walk around with musical instruments instead of grumpy frowns. And I want them to sing at people when they are angry and someone bumps them on a crowded train.
I want to not care about what I read and the emails I receive. And I want to actually give this meaning. Last night, I watched two people pluck strings with their fingers and make sounds with hair from a horse’s tail. As they shared the words they wrote, designed and remembered with their mouths which shadowed beneath the lights hung behind drawn curtains, I couldn’t help but think to myself, “What is it you’re doing with all of this?”
I am just not sure.
Yesterday was a rough day. Today I’m suffering from its vestige.