Note the date.
The ticket, not torn.

First time listening to the latest album, I knew I had to see them before the opening track was done:

I dreamed about the few US tour locations with the might of so what, I can do this, do anything, I am an adult! now soon again, Happy New Job, Happy Spontaneity, Happy Halloween, Happy Birthday to Me, Happy Favorite Band for Half My Life and Counting, still staggered by the tracks that triggered and changed me. Still changing.

Ticket, purchased.

Not soon after… knee gone awry. Plane tickets not yet bought, I hoped against hope the twist was fluke, would not take my life. It wasn’t. It did. “Sprained ligaments,” or something, not even six weeks would fix, and I know me pretty well. The pain of so close, so far flung away before the stage, I could not have stopped myself from dancing. I can barely hold back in my kitchen. It would have been a nightmare of tears and joint tearing, permanent damage, maybe, for all my everlasting love.

I have seen them before, in Chicago, 2002, the Greyhound solo to a big scary city I didn’t know a soul in, or need to. Every vision quest starts with a decision, determination, a little bit of crazy, lots of heart.

I didn’t try to sell the ticket, hoping I would be magically healed or dangerously self-destructive, last minute fly to San Diego and burst. But no. I am yes an adult. Thirty years old, today. Gray hairs and acne. Still going through a stage as I limp dance across my own.

They steal my breath and give it back, crush my chest and set me writhing, drink my blood and turn me into light. They taught me things don’t have to mean things to tell stories, the sound of words more telling, instrumental than their meaning, and thingevery thingevery thingevery will be all right.

Maybe some other time then okay?