Nowhere to Hide
Wearing high heels can be difficult.Stepping through the brittle winter sunlight as a tall white woman, I can't help but stand out. The terraces are full of muffled cappuccino drinkers eyeing each other up, and I bury deeper into my cream granny crocheted scarf. I sit down nervously, aware that these eyes are critical not appraising, and take my coat off in my confusion. It takes a full seven minutes before I realise that I should put it back on.
I don't want to go to Apolo. Along with the memories the name brings to me like a tide of knotted seaweed, I cannot feel easy today. Something is escaping my pores and I know I should be on fire. I am conspicuous by my omission from this world. I sit in this city like a ladder in a hole, going up yet going nowhere, tall and plain, its purpose uncertain. On the metro they stare at this gothic girl in her black and navy clothes, hidden behind swathes of cloth, head covered by a cream scarf. I finger nervously at the edges, pulling it up and over my nose, my black-blue eyes filled with adrenaline. Don't look at me.
Flash flash flash. I can't see who is taking the photos but the sudden white contrasts starkly against the sedate trendy colours of the people on this scene. I can see their nostrils gleaming, sweat lying in wait on their foreheads, ready to land on some unsuspecting fellow-reveller. This is an addiction, a spiral of colour waiting to happen in a city of fashion, where what you wear is more of an indicator of your personality than who you are. The lights change, the videos change, the music stays the same. The groups leave, the friends move on, and I am left in the bar, behind. With the other untrendies. Something fizzles in the air. A nondescript band take to the stage. And suddenly we all stop talking.
Seven people on stage. A blonde girl seems to be singing backing vocals but we cannot hear her. We can however see her dance and gyrate on stage, throwing herself on the ground before jumping to her feet again and spinning around the drummer. The singer looks like he should be an illustrator, but his voice has the timbre of the soft morning light. The songs change and revolve, now circus, now rock, now ballads, now something else. There is no noise. The empty bar contains a few bodies dancing in their own circles, weaving their own stages. The drummer grins and plays in melodious fury, his teeth gleaming white beneath the weak lights. I can see the sweat spray with every hard roll he makes. I am in love. I need this drummer.
Angel, I don't care it costs 40euros to get you here each time. We need you. We will figure it out.
P.S. For the record, I don't mean I am in love with this guy physically.
I don't want to go to Apolo. Along with the memories the name brings to me like a tide of knotted seaweed, I cannot feel easy today. Something is escaping my pores and I know I should be on fire. I am conspicuous by my omission from this world. I sit in this city like a ladder in a hole, going up yet going nowhere, tall and plain, its purpose uncertain. On the metro they stare at this gothic girl in her black and navy clothes, hidden behind swathes of cloth, head covered by a cream scarf. I finger nervously at the edges, pulling it up and over my nose, my black-blue eyes filled with adrenaline. Don't look at me.
Flash flash flash. I can't see who is taking the photos but the sudden white contrasts starkly against the sedate trendy colours of the people on this scene. I can see their nostrils gleaming, sweat lying in wait on their foreheads, ready to land on some unsuspecting fellow-reveller. This is an addiction, a spiral of colour waiting to happen in a city of fashion, where what you wear is more of an indicator of your personality than who you are. The lights change, the videos change, the music stays the same. The groups leave, the friends move on, and I am left in the bar, behind. With the other untrendies. Something fizzles in the air. A nondescript band take to the stage. And suddenly we all stop talking.
Seven people on stage. A blonde girl seems to be singing backing vocals but we cannot hear her. We can however see her dance and gyrate on stage, throwing herself on the ground before jumping to her feet again and spinning around the drummer. The singer looks like he should be an illustrator, but his voice has the timbre of the soft morning light. The songs change and revolve, now circus, now rock, now ballads, now something else. There is no noise. The empty bar contains a few bodies dancing in their own circles, weaving their own stages. The drummer grins and plays in melodious fury, his teeth gleaming white beneath the weak lights. I can see the sweat spray with every hard roll he makes. I am in love. I need this drummer.
Angel, I don't care it costs 40euros to get you here each time. We need you. We will figure it out.
P.S. For the record, I don't mean I am in love with this guy physically.
posted by Green Glass Beads @ 03:26
3 Comments:
There is love other than physical?
ho ho ho.
Toast is such a card.
PS: Every time some one says "for the record", I pretend they me. "For the trevor record".
It's not like I thought you were. I mean there is love and there is love. Drummers tend to be sweaty, loved or not. A hard roll is hard to find...
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