Bataclan Angels

These are my people. Beautiful, vibrant faces gathered for the sole purpose of filling their ears and spirits with the euphoric romp of the rock ‘n’ roll. These are my people, elated and adrenaline-filled, mashed up against barriers, buds and strangers, beer sloshing, dancing machines righteously singing their lungs out until it hurts. These are my people, who came to rock and spill into the streets drenched in sweat, high on the power of live music.

My intention is not to write a large, emotional missive on terrorism, my thoughts on it or the plight of refugees in the middle east etc. I will leave that to the fancy news makers and the grossly opinionated and uneducated.  My intent is to simply and lovingly pay tribute to my people, the people who worked for the weekend to arrive at a Friday night that was to hold adventure and the awesomeness of Eagles of Death Metal. My people, had no idea that stepping out into  the Paris this night would cost them their lives. For that, I grieve an indescribable ache.

I have been where they were. Not at the Bataclan, not in Paris, but in their shoes: worked to the bone Monday to Friday, anticipating a night certain to nourish my ravenous core by way of the power and indecent decibel of rock ‘n’ roll enhanced by quality time with my buds, and exultation of it all happening right in front of you. I live for that. I always have. I am sure so many in that theatre on Friday night did too.

My heart goes out to those people whose lives were taken so senselessly, in such a callous and violent manner: young effervescent individuals rife with potential and vigor. My prayers go to those they’ve left behind, family, friends, colleagues, and their dreams. My heart is also extended in love to those who were inside and escaped with their lives or who still struggle with their injuries.

I cannot pretend to understand what they’ve been through, but I’ve been where they are: in the front row, amped up, starved for live music, the escape and the potent freedom it engenders.

The next time I am where they were, the time after that and so on, I will think of them, honour them, my people. Music, the universal language - is dedicated to you.

In propinquity,

Nic

Tacenda

Tacenda

leave it to stillness

intentions unspoken

implications hushed

tacit

words better left unsaid

matters to be passed over

in silence

deafening silence

             inferred

            deferred

permit quietude

solemn gestures

oblique

matters not to be mentioned

emotions unable to breathe

stifled

sated

your truth

my truth

the whole truth

& nothing but

left to nothingness

purpose undeclared

words left to the wind

tacit

you and me

me and you

silent

broken

**

It may have happened; writer’s block may have set in. Just a little bit.  I suppose it was bound to happen after such a fruitful stream of creative writing.  When I started writing this current story, I slammed into a wall it seems but I’m hoping it’s just quick creative cat nap instead of an actual block.  I know the whole story now, I just haven’t been able to get it down on paper.  My noodle feels cluttered full of junk and work and worldly concerns.  Perhaps another news hiatus might be healthy.  With all of the goings on in Boston and the foiled terror attack here on Canadian soil, my thoughts before sleep aren’t of imagined characters and their colorful stories, they are deeply rooted in reality.  I need to find the way back to that creative space and turn ‘Mute’ into a full story instead of bare bones writing.  I am still scribbling notes but notes can only take me so far.  I need writing time, alone time with these people to do their story justice.  I also vow to stop bucking the rigid rules of grammar with my stubbornness and write the dialogue properly despite my intense hatred for that one little rule of the comma.  It is a rule I cannot escape if I ever have any hope of publishing one day.  Delighted though that Ruthie was the only person to ever notice it – just for her and for the sake of being correct, I will write with better rules and respect for them. 

I did manage to squeeze out a poem that I transferred from my writing book (which I spent several hours tinkering with over the weekend) to my Teapot.  Sometimes when I’m drained of inspiration, a few hours in those pages can really help.

Sidenote: it’s only Tuesday.  I’m going to try hard to quell my crank.  Try being the operative word.  An equal combination of idiots and outside static are grating on my last nerve but I will press on.  And smile.  It’s what I do.  The only way to battle hypocrisy and the grand double standard is to kill 'em with kindness.  

Who’s gonna ride your wild horses?

In propinquity,

Nic