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It's been a long-time belief of mine, that sometimes when you experience things, they don't seem so good as you experience them. A little reflection afterwards, and maybe they were OK, after all. It will probably take a couple of days to put down all that i wish to remember about my two-day life in DC... the Folk1ife Festival, the Metr0, shuttle buses, more food and drink (especially the drink) than i've absorbed in a month, the deflation of my undercurrent of rage, blistering heat to thunderstorm to ideal conditions. At turns... fascinating, abhorrent, poignant, musical, eye-opening, disappointing... over. Even before i left work, i knew it wasn't going to be ordinary. Six twelve-hour days of work in eight, shitty network, ferocious bad dreams... i was heading for the wall at a great rate of speed. Diva called not long after she'd left, warning me to avoid the parkway... where she'd just run over a scattered load of nails on the deceleration lane. Where she was sitting, with flats. Normally, she is the determined "shit or get off the pot" type. I could hear through the cell phone distortion that she was more than a little jittery, so i talked her down... got her to assess how bad it was, assured her that she'd be OK to get home, and i'd help her in the morning or sooner, if need be. Crisis averted. Early Thursday, we talked for most of the morning, about everything. About attraction, as well... and how i hadn't yet made a pass at her, for the right reasons. The feel-good ones, long term. That story, perhaps, is not concluded. Getting her to get her car fixed, i made for the interstate. Top down, already in the ninties. Forced, light-speed, on the metal and diesel artery, amongst the other car-puscles. Finally, to the hotel to meet up with Slick Willie before the tube ride to the Mall. Already had a beer open for me as i walked in the door. Before noon. With no breakfast. Four hours sleep. Not having been in the District for two years. Oh, yes... this was going to be a blurry day. Into the depths of the streets, to negotiate the tube. The usual scramble for tickets, scrutinising the maps, taking the leap of faith with unfamiliar trains. Spat out, into the light, in the middle of the festival. So easy to forget, despite the weight of history and crush of people, that this is just another town. Full of souls from everywhere. More french than i have heard in twenty years. Familiar, exotic music from Ma1i and Scotland. Ringed by landmarks burned into memory. I have a love and magnetism for central Africa, which drew me to that side of the Mall for most of the early afternoon... that is, until the heat and hunger made me look for cool and liquids. Food, paid for after being weighed on a scale. Eventually, a semblance of coherence gained, back we went to see more. One thing i know about S. Willie... when you pal around with him, you follow a lot. Me, who likes his indepencence. Rather than wander off and lose sight of an afternoon rendezvous with fellow D-landers, i hung around. Soaking in balafon, kora, synchronised dancing and kente cloth. Dogon ritual. Running into a fellow DJ and his griot friend. S. Willie, his appetities zeroing in on unattached females, the opportunities for travel, and more beer. Me, Hunter Th0mpson... him, Laz1o. Four-thirty... hot, sweaty, buzzed and impatient, we decided to make for the hotel to clean up, and return quickly. Right. Full trains, late shuttles, we arrive at the room. At seven. Already, a half-hour late. With no means to contact friends waiting. At least, i call them friends. That's when i started exercising my elbow in earnest. Foggily drifting through cajun appetizers and full-blown firey-spiced Thai excess. Not long after, i could hear the wind pass my ears on the way to a hard fall into the pillows. And night-long nightmares. ...to be continued. |
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