It’s 9pm on Friday night. I haven’t been to bed since Wednesday. I’m waiting to play a show at a poetry festival in Victoria with the Fugitives and I’m running on giddy tired adrenaline at this point. Noodle Box for dinner. There was a mad energy in the room last night. And yeah, there were the talkers in the corners doing their talking, but to be honest, I barely noticed them. What I could see from my perch on that strange stage with its inexplicable barrier were shining faces seated in front, and eager eyes squeezed in and standing behind them, and as soon as I gave them a little something, a little heart to go on, they reflected it back to me a hundred fold. This made the show for me. Singing with their voices back to me on my perch, it made me feel a hundred feet tall. It’s why I do this. Thanks, you that were there.
The rest of the night is a blur- when you’re riding the performance high, I guess time moves a little quicker. Beers help too. I remember hearing the soothing voice of Bodhi Jones over the bathroom speakers while I tried to focus myself in a dirty stall. I remember hearing the sweet melodies of the Left cut through the barroom traffic, and I remember seeing Henry and Joseph from Bend Sinister playing tandem guitar solos from atop the stage barrier, and laser lights and hands in the air. I remember feeling lucky to be a part of this thing. And now this night has come and gone and it’s on to the next thing.
Another show. No sleep.
But it’s what we do.