mostly written Friday 7 Oct
The day has managed to slip by in a wonderful semi-daze of warmed over exhilaration brought home from the concert last night. I sat in the back seat of the Sprit's chariot this morning breathing deep of the sea tang in the still cool morning air caught up in my own reflections of the day before...

It was so hot driving out, over 100*, and the four of us packed into my little car. The excitement was tangible, running like threads between us caught in grins and glances, reflected in the music we listened to on the way down. The traffic meant nothing, we were on our way.

I spent the morning wandering in and out of the thrift stores of this seaside town. The wind was deciding whether or not to pull up the blanket of fog or to pretend it was still summer. We were ruling them out as a possible source of wedding related dresses. In the midst of laughing and joking about married life as only three unmarried girls can, something else remained stilled...

Driving around Hollywood gazing at the glitter and glam of the lights, mixed about and juxtaposed with the low and dirty I was struck by the irony of going to see Gillian in the midst of all this. Her honesty and clear disdain for materialism is such a contrast to everything this facade covers.

Classes were hazy this afternoon. I was thinking too much of everything else going on this week-end and next and the one after that... I was glad to get into my still messy car and head back to the mist shrouded town, driving and not thinking. Getting out of the car across the street from Val's apartment I inhaled deeply of the salt laced air, feeling it filter down deep. The little one was alternately happily distracted and dismayed at the absence of his parents. Holding him in my arms, with his fussing rising to increasing decibel levels I glanced out the window and saw the fog.

Finding the theater proved to be something of a task. It is small and unpretentious when seen from the outside. We managed to arrive just before the already high parking fee was increased by half. This town is unbelievable. Will call provided a few tense moments, enough for me to begin envisioning the four of us sitting on the street curb, robbed of the ticket cost...Then the tickets were in my hands, really and truly there, and we were through the big black doors.

Out the door and down the stairs, into the cool breath of the wind and the softness of the fog. The little one's cries subsided almost immediately. We walked and walked, wandering up and down the small streets of suburbia. Modest houses with well kept yards held in by white picket fences passed by in a general perception of motion forward. I kept waiting to feel the familiarity of sleeping weight in my arms but he was not interested in slumber so we kept walking, up and down the sidewalks. There were birds in the trees, chirping to one another about the chill fog and the early dimness. It was odd to hear so many birds that far away from the country.

The sound of the people once inside was like the rush of wind in a tunnel or the sea from far off or the roucus chatter of birds roosting at sunset. The walls, carpeting, ceilings of the foyer were all black, the lighting yellowed or black giving the large space a surreal feeling. I was vaguely surprised not to feel cramped and smothered by the dark décor, but either the high ceilings or the excitement and anticipation made up for it. The boys decided to stake out a claim up front by the stage, the right “elbow” as the Sprit called it. The floor was gradually filling up with all manner of people, aging hippies, well to do yuppies, college age kids like us looking about as poor. Women in skirts and dresses, some in jeans looking all too “put together” to be the random favorite pair out of the closet, the rest dressed comfortably. Men in dress pants and designer shirts, jeans and t-shirts, most somewhere in the betwixt and between.

The afternoon was wearing away toward evening and he was no closer to sleep than when we first walked out the door. Indeed I had tried going back to the apartment, but as soon as we walked in the door the wailing began again. The coolness of the day had been sharpened by the setting of the sun, and I was loath to go back out unless he were warmer. So adding a layer, we headed back out into the fog.

Without warning the house mix of canned music was cut, and Gillian and David were walking up the stairs behind us, striding on the the stage. They seemed to be sharing some inside joke, just between the two of them. They said nothing as they walked up to the microphones, made last second tuning checks, then began. And the world fell apart. Song after song poured over, the words familiar, worn into my mind by hours of listening and wishing to hear it for real. And there we were, and there they were.

Coming home from work traffic was light within the neighborhood, but I could hear that the number of cars of the freeway running just beyond the trees had increased from when we first began walking. The light was beginning to fade and I began to watch for Val's return.

Perhaps at first glance they are not much. She is tall and thin, light golden hair and grey eyes, and ivory skin. And then look closer, the eyes are intense, the mouth easily finding pleasure in a smile, and her hands, my oh my, her hands are beautiful. Long fingers curved around the neck of a guitar or banjo, catching lost strands of hair and leading them back into place, white like marble or ivory. I could have watched her hands all night. He is taller, with a warm shy smile and a manner that seems to want to be any where but in the center of attention. And then he starts to play and you can almost see the world fall away from him. Each note seemed a real tangible being to be found and thrown into existence.

With her appearance the little one was all smiles for me. His world had returned to its right order. Watching him nurse I reminded myself in passing that I was really and very very honestly not ready to be married. Val invited me to stay and having no other plans I did. We fell to talking, all through the rummaging through of cabinets to find recipe books and the deciding of what to make. I asked what I could do to help with the making and was informed of my “guest status”. Laughing I returned to the vast couch flipping through the ancient GE cookery book that came with the equally ancient range and oven. Our conversation meandered from business to music and she put on one of her favorites.

As she played, her red stitched cowboy boots kept time with the music in a almost dance-like manner. Watching I found myself close to laughing in pleasure at it. On the intros and bridges of the songs she would bend low over her guitar focused entirely on her creations, a look on her face I have seen and felt – one of a lover beholding her beloved.
Requests were called out and acknowledged in one way or another, sometimes played, others not. They played through two sets, songs I knew, songs that were new to me. The time passed far too quickly.

The night wore on. We sat on the couch, supper finished and the dishes done, glasses of red wine in our hands talking about love and life. This lead again to music and she began playing the “do you know this band” game with me. So much music. The Pouges came out, along with the Moldy Peaches. She was thrilled to have someone who knew something but not enough to make them a “musical snob.” I laughed.

And all too suddenly they were saying thank yous and good nights. Calls of encore followed them off stage and twice brought them back on. And they were gone, the last notes of the last song still settling in, the reverberations of the applause and calls and whistles echoing. The house music came back on and I wondered how I was to describe the evening in words. Sitting on the couch with my computer on my lap nothing seemed adequate then...and three days later nothing seems any better. So the words go down, sticking to the page through force of habit and desire to capture the memories in a set stillness. And perhaps that is enough...