Wednesday, 15 July 2015

notes over the last weekends

"And now, what?" the writer wonders and ponders.
The "writer" not as in an author engaged in the pursuit of her own poetic and/or literary ambitions.
But rather the "writer" as the subject currently busy writing these lines on a KLM flights and later busy in typing than back on a blog post.
This writer/typist is barely able to put a grocery list together and hasn't graced this blog with her own presence for more than a month now, maybe "scribbler wannabe" could be a better fitting definition. Yet none of these remarks stops her from wondering and pondering. And perhaps worrying a little bit. Just a tiny little bit of worry and unrest.

She looks at her agenda and sighs: "Now what?!"
Not so long ago, her agenda looked so nice, full of promises of nice days ahead:

July plans

She notices that referring to herself using the 3rd person singular is a bit pompous, yet makes her happy. She also beams at the notion that in middle of July, not only she hasn't misplaced her agenda a single time, but that she occasionally even used it to write down appointments and things to do (sadly no grocery lists).

The pages of the incoming weekends, however, have no concert planned. Actually there's no concert planned till the middle of October.

The past month was made of time spent waiting for the next concert. It looked and felt like a never-ending time was just in front of me: I just had to let some time pass before taking my bag and go somewhere to see somebody playing.

A series of fortunate events created a wonderful soundtrack: Johnny Marr, Paul Weller, The Who, Bob Dylan, Counting Crows and, last but not least, the amazingly awesome Frames.

The soundtrack brought along a nice mileage too: London, Rome via Torino and then Cork.
After 1 month around I got a lot of memories: drinking gin from a very hipster yet eco-friendly jar in Hyde Park, while wondering at the number of people that still sport a Paul Weller haircut when even Paul Weller doesn't have a Paul Weller haircut any longer.
Doubts about the break in the middle of the Dylan's concert, even though, when somebody sings a "Les Feuilles Mortes" cover like he did, he's excused to take a break even every 5 minutes if he feels like it.
Or the notion that avoiding the trauma and disappointments of being stood up at the last minute for my birthday non-party was made easier by traveling to Rome, surviving its public transportation system and the heat, so to watch Counting Crows play live.
Not even the time for the bags to hit the floor and it was time to board the planes to Cork, cause it's a long way to Fitzcarraldo, but an even longer one to Ireland, if you are so unlucky to start your travel from everywhere in the world but London and Amsterdam.

And before I could even realize it, I had stopped using the 3rd person singular to refer to the writer and I keep looking a bit sad at the agenda: no concert in store for next weekend. Would the situation improve if I used the Force?

I got used to this nice pattern so easily: work, travel, concert, travel, repeat. It gave my past month a lovely rhythm to follow and now it's just hard, looking at the gig stubs on the wall, feeling extremely bored and tired of being again "here", in Milan, when nothing really change and the heat makes everything even less bearable.


But at least there's a plane waiting on Sunday: no concert, but still something different to do, friends to see and, as usual, a city to escape from and another to escape to.

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