If I believed in karma in anything more than a pragmatic sense, I would be sprawled out on my office floor with a tarot-deck-cum-calculator divvying up spiritual algorithms trying to come up with numbers to explain the last 24 hours.
Or the last 24 years, very nearly.
Kaffeine's plea of a couple of days ago sparked a "missing concerts SUCKS" reaction and got me thinking.
Well, if all she needs is a lift, I've got a car, can afford the gas, and an hour of my time in an evening that I'd planned to play housekeeper in my appartment -- defintely a worthy cause, nay?
What I WASN'T expecting, was to end up at a the receiving end of an extra ticket. Deftones, the only band that Peter, Patrick and I can agree on and sing in unison at each other during ultra-stressed globules of time, Deftones, a show I was figured was sold out and beyond my reach by the time I heard it advertised on the Buzz.
I DEFINITELY wasn't expecting it to be that phenomenal a show.
I MOST FUCKING definitely didn't expect to go crowd surfing, e'en as we meandered up front during a pause between bands, and I stood there as it slowly packed itself in thinking "this is going to bruise", remembering the mosh pits when I was all elbows and sharp knees.
So when the crowd surged forward and I lost sight of the delightfully shining-with-excitement Kaff, I didn't notice it surging back in my eagerness to play knight in shining armour to someone who definitely doesn't need it... And ended up on the floor.
And, just like the last time, nearly seven years ago when I lay looking up at scruffy jeans and BIG FUCK-OFF BOOTS wondering whether or not I should've taken my glasses off before the show...
Two strong pairs of hands reached down and grabbed me by the arms, thoughts of "damn but I'm glad I've been strengthening my shoulders lately for ninjitsu" raced through my head.
SO of course, with all this thinking going on, I completely missed the fact that I was being raised considerably higher than just standing position...
Waitasex, I'M TOO OLD TO BE CROWD SURFING (funny the bitter irony and goldy and silvery of when I laughed at Marc's "I'm too old to be hanging out in kiddie punk bars") -- only it wasn't a dangerous-bouncer-grabs-you-and-takes-you-out-back kind of surfing that I've been and done and loved and have defintiely had enough of - it was a gentle being carried over waves of kids who somehow seemed to understand that I wanted to be OVER THERE by the wall, not out here in the middle.
So I got to see a phenomenal band put on a suprisingly phenomenal show, got to mosh slightly and crowd-surf safely, and spend an hour sipping tea and eating crappy sandwiches with one of those people that truly shine when they manage to forget themselves and actually talk to you.
So when I woke up this morning, ten minutes late for my BIG HONCHO meeting with "Tony Engberg", the guy in charge of everything important, I expected to be tired, happy, but worn-out and sipping coffee consistently to stay alert enough to not embarass myself.
I did NOT expect to be shaking hands with one of the most impressive people that I've ever met in the industry.
The sort of person that my avatar-like boss looks up to.
I DEFINITELY did not expect to be explaining my linux philosophies to him, or how XProgramming integrated well with his vision of "light processes" and the future of Gemplus' Software development.
He's one of those visionaries with a crazy plan that he intends to follow at the cost of blood, sweat, and brilliant motivational techniques.
He's one of those visionaries that knows very well that "95% of people here" think that there's no way his ideas will work.
As usual, I'm one of the other %5, drooling over the thought of getting my hands on some of this stuff.
And he's got 25 years of experience screwing with Hewlett Packard that says I'm right.
Fuck, that's longer than I've been alive.
And he still wears ratty jeans and worn out old shirts to meetings.
And for all the softness abotu his eyes and the gentle unassuming way he holds his fingertips slightly touching while he listens intently as you speak, I know that he is one of the Wild Ones.
And cf, I wish I could explain to you the difference between resignation and a gentler revolt.
I wish I could show you how much more beautiful the soft padding of your kittens on your kitchen floor is to you, than it is to ten billion other people, with or without their RRSPs bolstering their inner feeling of security.
I'm still fighting with the distinction between growing up and selling out, but somewhere inside I know that despite my medical plan and life insurance, I'm still not the man with the alligator-skin briefcase that I never cried over those many years ago.
I'm not angry anymore, not so angry at least, because the hormones have settled every so slightly, and I've grown into the power to manipulate my environment and nothing can hurt me so much anymore.
But I haven't forgotten the hurt, or how to see it in other people, and I never will.
And I will always dance, just not always so often, or out late in the bars because I have to be up early, and maybe I won't draw the bladerunner style lines about my eyes anymore, but someone out there will and I'll only laugh at them the way I laughed at myself.
cf, there is no giving up. cf, the muses don't just up and leave when you scrawl a name that society gave you on a piece of paper that society considers important.
Unless you ask them to, in your rush to smother your slumbering secrets.
It's just a tool. This city is just a workshop. And it's up to us to not overfill it with so many gadgets that there is nothing left for us to create, and it's up to us to not get lost in the shopping spree that is preparing us to LIVE.
Fitting in doesn't mean falling apart, and the edge is still there.
Only it's never been anger. Ever. It's always meant to be inspiration, and I will fight to keep it poised at my throat as long as I walk this wild earth.
Bitch.
In any case, ask Flatline, he seems to be currently experiencing exactly what I mean.
And since this is turning into a tribute, Snaz, it's only beautiful because that is how you see things. Not a romantic, MY ROSY RED FUCKING ASS. It's not candles and rosebushes that make a poet, my dear, it's the glint of starlight and the cold, cold moon hiding behind your every vision.