we made it–the last leg of hackneyed devices, in Columbia and Paris. thank you for following along. what a journey it’s been.
If you judged how my Paris performance would go based on the performance track record leading up to it, one of your eyebrows might hang suspended while your upper lip might purse in doubt. D.C. was haphazard at best, an exercise in containing the panic long enough to emerge whole. Princeton was unexpectedly marvelous, albeit pretentious and gray. Toronto was exhilarating, alien, and exhausting: 24 hours sprinkled with a hyper-eager audience, cotton-candy sunrises at 34,000 feet, scrumptious octopus cassoulet, and the genesis of a cough that would persist for three weeks. And Columbia? Less than ideal, aside from a movingly-supportive audience: the creaking piano more resistant to Prokofiev’s razor-edged, acidic sound than French gastronomy is to change; the muffling floral-patterned carpet resembling a dried-out Upside Down.
The red-eye to Paris was similarly frustrating, as the cough’s force seemed to tear my body at the seams, and sleep remained infuriatingly elusive. The restlessness was both a reflection and a curse of my mental state. It was an ominous and degrading mix of feeling as if the whole world weighed upon the next five days, and a massive urge to not give a shit. So what if everything falls apart? harmonized menacingly with you’ve worked your bones to the ground for six months, you can’t afford not to care now.