Friday, August 17, 2007
It's Mark Olson weekend pretty much...
Unfortunately, for me, I have to go to Portage, WI for a wedding tomorrow, so I will miss his show at the 400 Bar. His new album is incredibly good. I talked about it in the HWTS podcast that came out last week, which you can listen to here.
Tony Thomas has an interview today with Mark Olson, which you can listen to here.
Olson is also playing at the fetus tomorrow at noon or at 2:00, depending on who you listen to.
I guessed and started the rumor that Olson would have some "special" guests with him and Olson himself, in his interview with Tony Thomas, intimated the same. Should be a brilliant show.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
I thought first of the
As I watched the news and listened to MPR constantly for the next few days, I couldn’t shake that helpless feeling. Like someone punched you in the stomach. I kept watching and listening, never really hearing anything new, but unable to turn away. I kept seeing this tangles mass of steel and concrete, splintered up towards the sky and swimming in the brown muck of the
As I watched, my mind began to work in the exhaustive way it works—creating dark fantasies of myself driving over that bridge. What would I do?
Each day after work, I pick up my daughter from day care and drive her across town to our house in
“I know,” is all she said.
I think she knew, but I couldn’t really tell her what I meant. I couldn’t verbalize the twisted thoughts that were in my head. I couldn’t say them out loud.
Again, I kept looking at those images of the bridge. I couldn’t believe it was real.
I went out the Friday after the collapse to the 331 Club to see JG and Mary Everest. I was there by myself and I was enjoying the music, for the first part of the night, it was therapy to unnerve myself from the bridge and my nightmares. About 12:30 though, I found myself staring at the floor, daydreaming about that bridge. It was consuming me again, I knew it was right down the street and I knew that I had to go see it.
I drive down University to where the avenue intersects the interstate and I slowed and looked to my right. Powerful lights lighted the whole span and I could see a section of bridge tilted up towards downtown like a giant concrete launch ramp. I could see nothing beyond that, the road just dropped out of sight.
I drove home not feeling better, I sat on my couch and listened, through my headphones, to Cloud Cult’s The Meaning of 8. There are so many songs on that album about a parent and child separated by tragedy. It was just the kind of wallowing torture I needed. I stared blankly at the wall as I sat on my couch listening.
When I woke up the next morning, I felt better. The fantasies stopped. I still felt heartbroken and helpless, but I felt better. I think maybe my bridge story is still happening…