Mindful of the Music

It’s a tragedy to see a show sitting down.

Watching some nostalgia machine pump out its product in a room full of dead women and lazy boys.

A single suit stands, his tie long gone along with his hair, but he doesn’t care as he dances in the open aisle.

Most ignore this dude’s craziness, pretend he isn’t there, because they’ve been dead so long they don’t remember what life looks like and they are embarrassed by the void.

That guy dancing in the aisle, though, he’s eternal, he’s the light of Venus.


I’m just being a bastard about it.

Who knows how hard it is to get old, except the old.

But I’ll keep preaching away, anyway, because I believe it’s more of a mental momentum than a physical limitation; a transition that picks up pace and weight with time poorly spent not paying attention. You gotta cut it off now, before you find yourself rigid in a stadium seat, waiting for a radio relic to finish reproducing a record and release you from your self-imposed obligation.

It’s a choice, this particular effect of age. Not all are, and so I am grateful.

And I can believe it’s a choice, because I’ve observed that this stagnant state is the negligible exception, not the rule.

More often than not, I see smiles and standing ovations and dancing strangers acting like siblings. Good people and consistent appreciation, from backstage to the back of the balconies, free from rage, satisfied by vibrations.

And so I’m writing this as a reminder to myself and those who might care, just beware of what can happen when you stop being aware.