(My concert at Camelot)

Thank God for the man
who’s girlfriend fucked him up,
stole all his records
and screwed all his friends
(behind his back)
who are full of shit anyway.

This is not going anywhere. I was going to write about the concert last night, but I cannot word it out. That precious but all too evasive sensation of one of the weirder concerts I’ve had. Sometimes sleeping over a dramatic experience is more digestive than verbalizing your sensation scene by scene, or emotion by emotion. You let the experience flood your senses gently, while your sub-conscious do the tough work of dissecting your subterranean personality. You wake up all bright and shiny, and your work is done.
But I can’t sleep.
Well, it was a tough concert, the sound on stage was bad, and I couldn’t get the army of my chemicals into balance. I was either on the verge of breaking into tears or losing myself a bit too much into the songs, or losing myself altogether. I had a clear vision of the audience, the crisp attention, the expectation. I saw them watching me wriggle in my insides, slow-motion, with interruptive frozen frames of my particularly troubled moments. I cracked. It was intense. Thanks to my efficient instincts, I didn’t go as far as emotional pornography. I caught myself in time, and the last part of the concert felt better to me.
Ryan Adam’s song sort of saved me. Sometimes I need to get out of my world into someone else’s. It relaxes me. For a sec there I was tripping over HIS fuck-ups, rather than mine. Thank God for the man who’s girlfriend fucked him up behind his back, stole all his records and screwed all his friends who are full of shit anyway. I mean, once you do a Ryan Adams, you can get back to your own song, and feel good about your own shit, its poetics and humor.

Oh, my handsome audience! Thank you for letting me be!