Here I am, hosting what just may be the most gifted, beautifully talented female band on this tumultuous planet. There are clothes all over the room, food scattered around the house, and more towels that have been flopped on doors than I've ever seen before, but let me tell you, when your house is full of love, you don't try and poison such things with, "Did someone take my boots?"
I guess what I like most is seeing these people, who somehow have traveled thousands of miles and yet to me, have just appeared simply upon my doorstep, who are from another life of mine. They fumbled out of J's van at around 2:30 am with striped faces bent from sleep and endless reusable water bottles but they were, to me, the vestiges of home, that have been carefully plucked and placed on my doorstep like fresh, boisterous flowers. Last night, those flowers sang, unabashed and overflowing with sisterly silliness in a way that makes people want to just ask, "How have you created such a family?"
I like to pretend I'm a part of this. I know that J and E do too, as they sat in that room with me last night, playing a rock and a stick, anything to chime in with those three (I even played a Klean Kanteen, which could really not be MORE Chico if it tried). I am reading an entire book about the "Being Part of This" phenomenon. A priest, living in the most gang scarred part of L.A. and thus the world, who is letting the most horrifically nurtured people finally feel like they are family. This priest rides his meager little bike up and down the most dangerous streets in our country like a delivery boy, but when he reaches in his basket there are no newspapers, only his aging, patient hands that finally open up, bare to the people living there, welcoming them to join in this love thing.
I love to hear stories of change. I love hearing that, people are not born terrible, though they may do terrible things. I like to hear that some people are so strong that they can kiss you after you murder someone they love, instead of scraping your limbs off. I like to talk of these things, this book, this world, with the Knight sisters and J and E, because when you say your thoughts out loud they sort of expand, and rise higher in the sky, as though they have dreams of their own to see something else just above that cloud. And sometimes, I can sit with these people and say nothing, because the music is speaking to us, sometimes whispering and sometimes chanting all the palpitations of your confusion and lust to the point that you feel undeniably satiated when that last instrument is put down to rest.
Sometimes I do get a little jealous of the music, though. It must be something most divine to play really, truly well, or to open your mouth and sound like some kind of creature best suited for beautiful island cliffs. Now, don't get me wrong, I like the solitude of writing, truly yearn and savor each quiet spec of time that is bequeathed me from wherever it is peace comes from, but sometimes I see people perform and glow and it makes me sad that I can never see how people are affected by my written words. Even, on the rare occurrence that I do touch someone, I miss their face, they little sound that escapes their mouth, and I do think it would be nice to share in that exchange with people, in my way of trade.
On that note, I intend to hear more music in my house tonight, as a matter of fact the band is set to return here from the store filled with all the makings of the perfect white-person-imitation Mexican feast that is sure to be incredible. And, of course, the wine will be opened and flung in the air with an overzealous toast that will inevitably remind us that we are young and life is, indeed, happening and singing with us, all the time.
More on SXSW later!
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