“Think about an event you’ve attended and loved. Your hometown’s annual fair. That life-changing music festival. A conference that shifted your worldview. Imagine you’re told it will be cancelled forever or taken over by an evil corporate force. How does that make you feel? Today’s twist: While writing this post, focus again on your own voice. Pay attention to your word choice, tone, and rhythm. Read each sentence aloud multiple times, making edits as you read through. Before you hit “Publish,” read your entire piece out loud to ensure it sounds like you.”
Standing there, rained upon, wet, soaking so, shivers running over me like squirrels on branches, I wait for the music to stop.
The grass has long been torn by lumbering steps and the stomping of dancers. My feet are muddied by the splatter of raindrops in the dirt turned mud turned sea of brown refuse.
The mass moving around me is an organ of flesh and sensations pulsating to a beat shared with the wind and the rain and the four men jumping under flashing lights some ways away.
The wind rushes between our faithful army and it grips at us like the grabbiest back-up singer. It picks up umbrellas like a playboy toying with Lolitas and sends them over the crowd to float and hum in the flashings of the sky.
It all rumbles around me, the crowd, the wind, the music, but I am only the shiver that breaks my skin to the vibration of it all.
Now the stage blossoms in throbbing lights and the darkening sky above responds in like. The four men exhaust themselves in those flashes and sweeping beams and in the pictures painted of electronics fibers that are projected over us like the saddest sheet to ever cover the world. They jump, fingers and arms thrashing on wood and strings, membranes beat with fists, and vocal cords strained into bluntness.
Suddenly, the music stops and the lawn that is gone erupts in a clamor that resonates of gloom through me. Then it all goes dark and the throbbing mass buzzes away to busses and cars and bikes and only the wind and the rain remain.
I stand were I am, feet firmly in the mud. The cold and wet feel of my soaked T-shirt envelops me like an unwelcomed lover. The sky lightens up again over the stage and the treetops arching in a jagged line behind it. I stand there, shivering. Next year, the mud and the trees will be concrete and tall, shiny mirrors obsessively trying to reach for the sky. The mud swarms around my toes and I think, “I won’t feel you again.”
The sky rumbles again and I look up and let the rain wash away my tears.
Cyril Bussiere 06-20-2014