December 30, 2009


The music was a piece of her, not just a remnant, but a part of the whole. All great artists are mad in some small way, perhaps the kind of madness that comes only from giving away the pieces.

Maybe it was the alcohol that caused such sensations, the alcohol that so lowered inhibitions that my body felt the music as a lover’s hand. Her hair was draped across her face, that face which was so serious. The song she sang was an extension of her, a portion of her soul, flesh and blood reaching, the way she played it, out to caress the other girl. She tore a piece of herself off and gifted it to the other girl, and to all of those watching.
I wrote before about fire, about zest. I wrote about passion and intensity and burning. I said before, she burns. The way she burned last night won’t be quickly forgotten.

She dropped to her knees, guitar in hand. She played as if the song would burst from her if she did not use her mouth to give it form. The words she sang pressed lips to our lips, tangled fingers in our hair, pinned us against the wall and left us there. The song pushed at us, enveloped us, wrapped us in rapture, but left us with no relief. Each ringing tone grasped at us, embraced us, took us.

The other girl knelt in a little puddle of herself on the floor. She felt it the way I felt it, her back arched, her eyes blurred. She felt each syllable push its way into her like the fingers of an unruly lover. The voice rolled her under, like it did me. When it ended, we all lay there, shattered.

It was exquisite and intense, excruciating and euphoric. Well done.

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