Author's Note: This is just a mix of rambling, entertainment, and a little psycho opinions. Enjoy.
Just as thunder is rumbling in the distance, and shafts of pale light seep through gray clouds, and green tree branches dipping out of the shadows, like laced fingers trying to catch the sun as it falls in the sky, I fall. My mind slips into further darkness as I let this certain vision fill my mind, etching each of its dark lines into my head. The image will fade slowly, just as the night does, and I'll be left cowering on the walk, wondering where my black cape had gone.
I couldn't go inside. I couldn't just stand up, walk through the door, and settle in for the day. Oh, no. My pistons were still roaring, but heart was still pounding, my church was still burning. I had just scene one of the greatest live sets ever, and I wasn't about to let it go that fast. Small mercies. They make our days just a bit happier, a bit brighter, and a bit less gray. I didn't need life-altering epiphanies. I didn't need support groups. I needed crippling bouts of depression. I needed a icy sorbet. I needed dark streets, and a good vegetarian dinner. I needed the privilege of seeing a good band play in a small concert hall; a couple of jerks standing next to me, nodding their heads to the music. Those were my small mercies. And I could generally find them every Saturday night. Thank the heavens.
We all have small things that make us feel better, that we could look forward to. For some of us, it's finding out our estranged cousin is finally getting married. For others, it's seeing our friends every day. Mercies. Life isn't about to hand us a leprechaun and a put full of gold, but it will give us decent burrito on occasion, or spare us another rerun of Grey's Anatomy. My latest small mercy was acquiring two tickets to see The Duke Spirit. Relatively unheard of band that has about the best live performance of any other artist I know. I usually stay away from the rock and roll clubs, because I can't handle anymore 40 year olds in goatees and vintage t-shirts, but last night, I made an exception. I went to a shallow teenage venue to the band that the British magazine New Musical Express gave 10 out of 10 for live set. Impressive, I must say.
All my doubts vanished as I saw the band crawl up on stage. The concert was one of the best I had been to in a long time. A small crowd, a great band, and plenty of stage diving and broken noses. Not mine of course. At least, I hope not. I was currently running a split knuckle that probably needed a stitch, and an earache that needed a few types of pills and ear drops, neither of which I had bothered with. Back to the concert.
It. Was. Powerful.
That word again. My mind spun out of control after the second song, "Cut Across the Land". I don't remember what I was doing, or what I was saying. I was enjoying myself. Going ballistic over a Brit punk band that had beat up guitars and deep lyrics. Exactly what I needed. My small mercy.
I could go over the rest of the show, but besides the fact that I just don't want to, you don't deserve it anyways. Sitting here, reading a dumb article that's pretty much a ramble and doesn't mean anything to you. Go see a The Duke Spirit show. I dare you.
After the show, I was so tired, and so groggy, I grudgingly accepted Wyatt's ride home. About 6 of us were packed into his mother's explorer before Wyatt turned on the radio. "Everybody get down on the floor. Now throw your hands up in the air if you're a true playa." I don't know exactly what was going on in my weary mind, but for some reason, I subconsciously threw mine up. I was the only true player in the car.
For the rest of the ride home, my mind reviewed my night. It was satisfying to let go at a concert. Many of you know what I mean. Just throwing all the troubles over your shoulder and crackling with maniac energy. To sing till your hoarse, to dive with reckless abandon, to swallow guilt and become almost obnoxious freedom.
When I finally arrived at the house, I knew I was in trouble. It was 1:00. Mom rushed out the door in her robe, while a steady stream of curses flowing softly from her mouth, and her arms flailing up in the air as if that would make me any earlier. Mum was a true player.
Small mercies were the only salvation for me, and as I was shoved into the house around 9:00 the next morning, my legs numbed by the crisp air, I couldn't help thinking that this was one of the finest small mercies I had enjoyed in a long time.
