The Walkabouts, the people I love, in my problematic country.
The concert ... Shock, love, sadness, joy, insanity. Love.
Shocked by their faultless playing — the shock of recognition — by their strange, wholly unexpected humanity — I guess I tended to think of them as gods, stupid as it is — they're better than that — wasn't prepared for the lovable flesh-and-blood people — saddened by it — watching them on stage I realized, for the first time, how well humanity rhymes with mortality... Simultaneously with uninvited sorrow — PURE JOY in seeing those same frail, mortal human beings skillfully, bravely transcending death, and space, and time, "looking past the shit," transforming pain into courage, loss into pride, darkness into deeper darkness — more soothing than light... demonstrating what it sounds like when you're not afraid ... Watching the sweat on Chris Eckman's throat, the blue veins on his hands handling the guitar in the way I had never heard before, nor hope to hear again — unless they come back — watching his wrists with the sudden desire to bite deeply into mine — just to feel a more familiar, physical kind of pain... His deep voice singing the words I need badly; the strangely realistic impression that my ears and nose will start bleeding — out of too much pleasure — if he continues to sing so perfectly — he does... The two of them singing together ...Carla's voice like a beautiful shiny knife, Chris's voice like rust crawling over its blade, old dried blood, the dirt on the edge, making the cuts across my heart and knees all the more poisonous, painful, unbearably beautiful. His refusal to communicate with the audience in any other way but music — thank him for that — it was enough — too much ... His playing the guitar — in Firetrap — on his knees, unable or not wanting to stand up, taking the remnants of my sanity with him straight to hell — and I couldn't care less.
I'm almost paralyzed by their beauty; barely standing — the tiny conscious piece of my mind wondering how THEY can produce such... music, and still stand upright, damn it; tears of frightening joy and misery spilling directly into my veins; a frozen smile on my lips; my hands trembling, taking their pictures — I know I won't believe my scars, I need something to convince me I am really there, that this is not only a more-than-usually-vivid hallucination ... And at the same time at the back of my mind the lunatic conviction that I will never die, that I'm invincible — despite the fact my heart is about to break open... Screams, laughter, low wails, wordless prayers for them, to them, stuck in my throat, for good. Choking on love and gratefulness.
How many days have passed ... it is not fading away, expectedly ... my life splits into two periods, the life before and the life after the concert ... the concert itself doesn't fit in anywhere ... one of those experiences that make words like magic seem stupid. A blissfully scarring, borderline-crossing kind of existential experience. And then some.
Anyway... with the sickness in my stomach, I still have to force myself to eat half a meal a day, I still have to breathe in deeply from time to time just to slow down the manic, Jack Candy drumming of my happy happy beauty-broken heart. Cannot sleep well. Still laugh aloud for seemingly no reason at all. Still want to cry for three days without stopping.
Still the irresistible urge to leave my job, to desert my family, my friends, my three dogs, and travel to Belgrade again, and stand in front of Dom omladine just in case they decide to come again. Without sleep, water, food, or any shelter, any knife for the ride, apart from their music, their voices, their words.
The same smile cuts into my face; the same faraway look in my eyes. Still there, at the concert, eye-witnessing the greatness, the talent, the beauty, the sweat of the men and women I love. And I honestly cannot come back. (Not that I bother trying, in the first place.) I passed the not-so-silent crossing.
Yet, the words are devils, as Chris wisely pointed out ages ago. The actual experience was/is a thousand times more intense than what my ridiculously inaccurate, (not nearly passionate enough!) expressions can hope to capture and hold down on the page. From now on, no matter how much longer I live, I will be proud (a bit madder, if that's possible, and much stronger) because I was there. And I will be repeating one prayer, which only my complete honesty, the gut feeling that there's no alternative to saying it, saves from being sentimental stupidity:
Dear beautiful travelers, may God bless you and keep you safe on all your journeys.
Love you love you love you