I've become an energy sponge these last couple weeks. My mood and strength are very impressionable. I'm porous and vulnerable. My therapist gave me sound advice. She said to notice my surroundings during the moments when I feel closest to you – where I am, how many people I'm with, who those people are, what's happening in the background – and to keep doing those things.
My friend April flew in from Chicago last night. I arrived at the Denver airport to pick her up a half-hour late. I was paralyzed by the sirens, emergency vehicles, and flipped car I'd passed on my icy drive and was simply out-of-sorts. She was unfazed by the delay when I began my series of apologies. She, a beautiful mess of punchy-colored leather, fur, blonde hair, and good energy, looked at me with an Are you freaking kidding me? As if you really need to apologize for anything right now expression, and climbed in the car. She gave me a two armed hug from the passenger seat and held me for longer than I held her. Before we exited the airport terminal, she had already reminded me of the one time that she had met you, and how it only took that one time for her to know how incredibly exceptional of a man you are, and how complete you had me. I knew immediately that she was the right person to have by my side right now.
Before going back to the house, we stopped at the grocery store where you and I always shopped. She helped me get through a few 'firsts'. The first time entering our local supermarket, where you generally would grab the cart for us, but this time, I did. The first time choosing avocados and knowing you weren't going to be there to eat them – spooning them right out of their skin with a dressing of coconut aminos and hemp seeds. The first time picking out cheese without you, you liked the raw mild cheddar. The first time stopping at the beverage section and realizing I didn't need to buy coconut water, because you liked it and I don't. Your 76% ChocoLove dark chocolate, your marinated rosemary chicken, your favorite free-range eggs, your unsprouted almonds, and your Ben & Jerry's Americone Dream… I walked past it all. I did not put it in my cart. I no longer shop for two. I paid and we made it out the door. I exhaled and a tear escaped the corner of my eye.
This morning April, Kira, and I drove three hours south of Boulder to Mount Princeton Hot Springs. I charged your phone and hooked it up to the stereo as we pulled out of the driveway. We turned on The String Cheese Incident, your favorite band and the artist that monopolizes your data usage. The feel-good bluegrass jams hit my porous ears like water to a sponge. Each song that played ignited a hazy memory.
I had never seen String Cheese until we started dating. In the beginning of our relationship, my little brother, who shares your taste in music, told me which album to listen to first. I would drive around Austin listening to that record. One of the first songs that stuck out to me was Sirens. I remember texting you the lyrics on day, out of the blue: I just want to say I love you / And make sure you feel it everyday / 'Cause if today had been my last chance / It's just something I wanted to say. You sent back a purple heart, an icon of cheese, and an excited response. You were psyched that your new girlfriend was doing her music homework. I remember that song being played at one of the shows we attended together later that year. We wrapped our arms around each other, swayed, and sang to each other. I remember that song being played again, two weeks ago, at your memorial.
As the Cheese songs continued to pour out of your iTunes today while April and I drove, I felt a sense of peaceful nostalgia. It was as if you were choosing each song for us to listen to. You were selecting the soundtrack for our mountain drive. We chatted, we cried, we listened. I imagined that you were sitting in the backseat of my car as we drove, adding in your perspective through the song. Sometimes, along the way, I would even hear your jokes or responses in the back of my head, a silent but distinct voice. I chose to believe in you.
I remember the first time we went to see The String Cheese Incident together – it was my first show and your one-hundred-and-ninety-sixth. It was in Austin on July 3rd, 2013. You were in my city visiting me, but you got to introduce me to your world.
From the moment we were dropped off in the lot, I had never seen someone so plugged in. You knew nearly every other person we passed. People were calling your name with excitement from all corners of the parking lot. You were hugging and smiling. You were introducing me to person after person, spouting off their name and the three other nicknames they also go by. Your eyes were twinkling. You were in the zone and it was incredible to witness. It was spectacular to be by your side, to be your girl. I was proud.
The first song the band played that evening was Lonesome Fiddle Blues. You were off to a good start at getting me to like this band because LFB is a bluegrass song that I recognized from my childhood. My mom is a fiddle player in a band, so the standards are familiar. The nostalgia grooved in my heart and I smiled at you and said, "I know this!" "Alright!" you responded with a proud grin.
Our love grew that night at the Cheese show. Me, seeing you in your light. You, seeing me dig your scene. It was beautiful for us. It got even more exciting when the band closed their first set with BollyMunster. As the bhangra-inspired dance tune flooded my ears, my hips started to shake. Synthe-electronica poured in over the Bollywood bluegrass, I gritted my teeth with anticipation of a bass-drop. I didn't even know what was happening, but I absolutely loved it. "If THAT is what this band is all about, I'm ALL over it," I told you after the song ended. You laughed, knowing I was hyped up over a shameless dance party jam but stoked by my excitement.
Later that summer, we went to Horning's Hideout for a String Cheese Festival. On Sunday, the last show of the weekend, I watched String Cheese play Struggling Angel, a song they had written after Sarah's death, in honor of her. I watched nearly the entire crowd of thousands of people, blanket their arms around one another and pull each other in close. I watched hundreds of people gather around Chris, Sarah's husband, and silently support him with hugs, love, tears, and meaningful appreciation for her life and her memory. You were by Chris's side the whole time, holding him. I watched you bawl through the entire song. I watched tears stream down Chris's face too. I saw so many tears during those six minutes and realized how much support this band was offering those in need. I cried too. They were carrying on your friend's memory with beauty, song, and hope. I never met Sarah, but because of what The String Cheese community created for her (and what she had helped create in them), I feel like I know her. I'm so glad you were so involved in a community of people who take those memories so seriously, that are so in touch with their own emotions and supporting emotions of others in need. It's a beautiful thing.
I haven't heard Struggling Angel live again, but we would listen to it on the new album when we needed a good cry at the house. I only heard BollyMunster one other time with you, at a free show in Boulder. And I haven't heard them do Lonesome Fiddle Blues live since that show in Austin. I thought that my seven shows in the past year and ten months was a good start. But I thought it was just that, a start. I never imagined that eighth show I'd see would be them playing at your memorial.
Music has been really hard for me since you died, my love. It was such an important part of you. It's hard to hear a song without making a direction comparison to you. It's hard to listen without being able to ask you, "Who is this again?" and you being able to chime in with an in-depth description of artist, genre, and song. The String Cheese Incident is the only band I've listened to since you left this place. I've listened to them more in the past few weeks then I did when you were alive. I hear you in their music. I see your smile in their rhythms. I feel your love in the lyrics. I imagine the shimmer of excitement in your eye and you lifting up your arms to shake your hands in your one gimmicky dance move that you always did at the end of a song, the final snap. It's giving me some solace to fill my soul with the music you loved so much.
When April and I pulled up to the hot springs resort, SCI's song Joyful Sound echoed through the car and our hearts. We recognized your actions and your life's meaning as a direct correlation to the words of the song. We sang along, out loud. I cried, because my heart is broken open, your hand isn't their for me to grab, and your hips aren't there for me to groove with. But I smiled because what you stand for remains. I opened myself up and let the music seep in to my porous soul, knowing you would be proud.
Take time to give thanks / Make time to be given / I'm going to stop and think twice / About the way that I'm living
Did I say a kind word / Am I proud of my actions / You know a job well done / Gives me satisfaction
Can I earn your trust / Your love and affection / Just one step at a time / In the right direction
Going to aim for the sky / Keep my feet on the ground / Raise my voice to the heavens / Make a joyful sound
Showing posts with label gig. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gig. Show all posts
Glitch
As I sit here in Steamboat, looking out over a beautiful cascading view of the mountain range, snow just beginning to appear on the runs, it takes me back to our visit here early last Spring. You had a gig at the Ghost Ranch on Friday night. I had a deadline for my job at the magazine. You drove the 3-hour-trek gracefully.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
I never knew a man could operate a car with 'grace'. Testosterone, heavy machinery, highways, grace? It didn't seem plausible – but you broke the mold. You, always hugging turns, driving faster than it felt, passing slower traffic with quick ease, and still somehow finding time to give oncoming drivers boater's waves the whole way. You taught me to always stay in the righthand lane except when passing – a traffic concept I somehow missed all these years. You were able to balance the rugged mountain highways, change the track on your iPod, make a funny pun, and open a pressurized kombucha all at the same time, without raising a hair. You always preferred to drive. My nervous acceleration and lack of cruise controlling juggled with asking you to navigate, change the music, and peel me a banana just seemed like more work. You never said it to me directly, but we both settled into that habit. I was just fine with that. Having survived a near death accident when I was younger, I preferred to let you take the wheel.
Along that drive, we drove over Berthoud Pass. As you glided around the turns, we noticed some commotion a few cars back. You continued on the path, not sensing danger and on a time crunch to make it to your gig. Later, we found out that an avalanche had occurred, completely engulfing cars in snow. Everyone was OK, but the road was closed and major delays ensued. We looked each other in the eye and exchanged a few words of gratitude for our safety and timing. I made a joke about how lucky we were that you'd been driving, because if it were I, we would definitely have been inside a giant snowball.
A few miles beyond, as we descended the pass, we hit traffic and came to a stop on the road. We were caravanning with the rest of the band in a few cars and they were ahead of us. Stopped, and obviously not moving for a while, we leashed up Kira and walked her up the road to the guys in front of us. We all shared a bowl, a few laughs, and you probably topped it off with an epic fart. Then we hopped back into the car and continued on our way: quiet, happy, and slightly stoned. It was a peaceful drive.
We arrived in Steamboat later than expected and checked into our hotel on our way into town. The rest of the band was sharing a couple rooms at a motel on the edge of town, but you had gotten us a room at the ski-in, ski-out Sheraton at the base of the mountain. I wished you luck and gave you a kiss as you left, hurrying off to sound check. I stayed in the hotel room for a couple hours working. I remember taking a photo: Kira on the bed, my computer open to a page layout, a room service salad, a glass of champagne, and the lit up ski-run with night skiers gliding down the slopes out the window. I posted it to Instagram with a show-offy caption saying something like "I could get used to this groupie lifestyle".
A while later, you arrived back in the room full of gusto and excitement for the gig filling me in on the details of the backline kit, the crowd, and everyone's moods. You ate the food I'd ordered you and we made love, quickly. You changed into a fresh tee, a solid maroon t-shirt that was 'dressier' in your opinion and appropriate for a gig. Your hair was not to your liking so you grabbed a baseball cap on our way out the door. We drove to the Ghost Ranch just a few miles up the road. I remember the exact parking spot you got, directly in front of the marquee reading "The Drunken Hearts". I made a joke about how it was V.I.P. and saved just for us. You locked the doors of the Volvo, grabbed my hand, and we walked under the marquee lights and through the door. I danced all night to your music and we both drank a bit too much. I don't remember going to bed.
We awoke late the next morning, still a little boozy from the previous night's high. After room service breakfast, some extra snuggles, and a quick dog-walk, we made our way to the base of the gondola. Everyone else was moving slower than us so we hung around waiting. It's those moments I miss most – the times when we were doing nothing at all but having so much fun together, just being so happy, wrapped in a blanket of love, not a care in the world.
That day, we skied for a bit, but less than we anticipated because our hangovers kicked in. You were particularly happy to ski down to my level that day because of your headache, but you always did without complaint anyway. Everyone else left to head back home to the front range, but we opted to stay an extra night.
The Wailers were playing a free show at the base of the mountain that afternoon. I took a photo of you on our balcony. You were in your boxers, the gondola behind you, and the band warming up. "Watching The Wailers in our undies," I'd captioned. We walked Kira and found a liquor store. We grabbed pints of tequila, for you, and whiskey, for me, and joined the crowd, stealing nips of each others bottles as we laughed about how ironic it was to listen to reggae in the snow. I told you about how badly I wanted us to visit Jamaica together. I'd lived there as a little girl, and you'd never been. Kira made friends with other dogs and we watched little kids being adorable in their oversized ski gear and mittens. Eventually bored of the scene, and pretty drunk, we went back to the room and dropped off our Kira-monster. We grabbed a bite of food at the hotel's restaurant. We retired early that night, exhausted and saucy. You ordered a dirty movie from On Demand and we made love again, and then again. We drifted off to sleep, wound up in each others limbs, fake orgasms still playing on the screen, empty liquor bottles on the nightstands: a classy scene, indeed.
As I awoke here this morning, the scene was so different. Your absence was so present in my heart and in my world. I slept in a twin bed last night, tossing and turning in the darkness. My mind wandered sleeplessly: I fit in a twin bed now. Alone. A bed built for one. A bed made for a person alone, a person with no partner, a person who does not get to make love. Kira jumped into the bed with me at some point, understanding that I needed another warm body, some comfort. It helped a bit and I slept lightly.
I woke early and wandered around our host's beautiful mountain home. I admired the finishes, the steam shower, the radiant heat floors, and the views. I tried not to think of our home in Boulder, just about to undergo it's own makeover, now halted.
As I trolled through the house this morning, barefoot, sleep still in my eyes – I felt like there had been a glitch in the Matrix. I half-expected Keanu Reeves, with his too-smooth skin and dead eyes to walk out of a closet, garbed in a trench coat, and say, "Sami, there's been a major mix up." Barely surprised by his arrival, I'd retort, "Yeah. No shit." Keanu would say, "Ted wasn't supposed to die. He can't die because we need him here on this earth for the duration. He's too important for the master plan. We need your help Sami." "Anything!" I would say. "We're not sure you're the right person for the job. You will need to keep a secret for the rest of your life and not tell a soul," Keanu would say. "I can do it!" I'd plead. "I just don't know, Sami. You have a higher than usual amount of honesty in your source code and keeping secrets is not your forte," Keanu would insist. "Please! I can do it. I will never tell anyone. Just bring him back," I'd say. And he would. He'd instruct me on how I need to make every decision exactly the same as I had the first time, up until those last few days – then he'd tell me how to change the sequence of events. He'd rewind the Matrix to that morning we woke up, hungover, 9 months ago, just down the road at the Sheraton. Everything would be in place again, and no one would remember what had originally happened, except for me. And I'd never tell a soul and we'd live happily ever after.
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