Skip to main content

Free Fallin'

today i purchased tickets to see the one and only Tom Petty. Tom Petty people! 

okay perhaps i'm a little more excited than i should be, but i feel i need to stress the obsession i have with live music. i don't just like seeing musicians i love it. there is something beautiful and lovely from the beginning of that day to the end. 

the day of the show has a certain buzz to it. whether i'm driving to another city or seeing someone local, there is a moment where the momentum of the buzz grows, a halo of electric excitement encompasses me and grows as the clock ticks closer to the time i step into the venue. even when i know that traffic and parking will inevitably be difficult, this is the only time i revel in the complications of a plethora of individuals all heading in the same direction. the pied piper is calling and we all heard the tune. 

i want to stand in a crowd of people and sing and move until there is slick moisture covering my body. i want to sing out and join the choir of people as they all sing as off tune as i am, but we still sound wonderful when the singer holds the mic out toward the masses. i want to turn and smile at strangers as they turn and smile at me when the song that we love comes on and we sing even louder and more off tune than we were before. and, at the end, the end when my screams have become hoarse and i feel the euphoria of a magical moment the last song will come on as they come back out on stage after our pleads of " JUST ONE MORE". and they'll play. they'll play even when they feel exhausted because we've taken everything they have for night. 

as i walk out with my friends, the people that shared that musically induced high, we'll be slightly deaf as if under water, but we'll smile because no other words need to be spoken.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

¿Y la Prieta?

My grandma, Ita, called me Prieta. She called me this because my skin is toasted brown. When I was born my mom says I was light skinned, but she knew “que iba ser morena” because the inside of my little baby thighs were already darker than the rest of me. In the sun, I turn a darker brown. I get even more Prieta. It was a term of endearment. My sister, who has a light complexion, was called guera or guerinchi. When I tell people who don’t speak Spanish what Prieta means, dark or the dark one, their eyes open wide and a small gasp escapes. I see the offense they feel for me sprinkled on their faces like the freckles I will never have. When I try to explain, the offense still shadows their eyes. That is the problem with Spanish. Wait, maybe, that is their problem with Spanish. Even when I explain, they are suspicious. Their faces ask, “Is this true?” as if I am setting them up for a joke. But how can I explain the cultural and literal meaning of a word at the same time? ...

Scene 1. Act 2. Line 53.

I am told that I am good at writing dialogues. Perhaps that's the reason when it comes to interacting with people the words that I want to hear, the words I already have written in my head are ready, but when they don't come out I am often disappointed. What happened to that perfect phrase I had in my head? What happened? Why are they silent? Or, where did that come from? I find myself left with wanting more, or needing less, or simply being in a state of unfamiliarity. Why? You might ask? Because there are very few times when what I have written in my mind is translated well into real life. Real life is not scripted. Repeat. Real life is not scripted. Recently I wrote about a true moment. A moment that I witnessed of a girl crying in her car. It happened. It was REAL. I didn't write anything but what I saw, and I was told in a workshop that the whole scene was cliche and needed to be cut. As a writer I saw what was meant. As a human I thought, "We can't cut this...

Para Las Nietas

Cuando se van las abuelitas, se va una parte fundamental. We are pulled from the brown soil. Roots exposed. We falter, droop. How can we continue without the cariño of their warm hands to support us? Nourish us con sus caricias. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se van los almuerzos y cenas que no más ellas hacían. Las comidas that tasted of their love can no longer exist. The tacos crispy and brown, won’t taste the same. The flavor, like a duende, can’t be caught no matter how hard we try to capture it in our own kitchens. Cuando se van las abuelitas, se nos va el lenguaje, porque ellas nos hablaban en español. Nuestros apodos como Güera, Prieta, Niña, Mima, y Mija se desaparecen. We ache to hear the sounds of our names from their lips and grasp for their words. The ones we didn’t know we would miss. Cuando se van las abuelitas se nos va el amor duro. We lose the sharp tongues quick with consejos we didn’t want to hear at the time. Se nos pierden los dichos and the wisdom we...