Ladies and Gentlemen:
After spending a week with bronchitus, I was reminded of one of my favorite things in this whole world. Intense pain and the calm that follows. I love a bad fever and more when it breaks. Sweat rolling, muscles shaking and aching. Seems like forever too. Just burns and burns.
Then nothing. It's gone. No fever. Clothes soaked to the skin, a roomful of stagnant air feels like a sweet breeze. Being incapacitated becomes a peaceful, easy feeling -- too weak to do much, so relieved to be done with it. Oh my god, that's a terrific moment.
Though I rarely do this and wouldn't plan on it, I love those convulsive puke sessions on a morning after a good, long night. Same thing. So much hurt and chaos ending almost suddenly, giving way to a large, open pasture where it's okay to lay your head down on a cold, splattered porcelain rim.
I mention this, not to be gross but to say that's one way I feel about Macon. Usually, the anguish is a fierce hangover before laying on the couch remembering all the good shit. Or, the hard work that goes into doing something cool and the relief when it is well-received. Other times, it's having an awesome offering ignored and fighting through that anger to find something redeemable. Those times, there are no phoenixes here -- just tailbacks: heads lowered, breaking tackles and scampering for two or three little yards for a first down.
It is no secret that I was (am) pissed about there not being 5,000 people at Bragg Jam. I've heard I did two things at the end of the night (I vaguely remember them). Nasty reports trying to get me to go home because I was ripping branches off the trees on Cherry and yelling "Fuck you, Macon!" He stopped trying to help when I hit him with one of the sticks. The Fish says he saw me throw a portion of the metal fencing into the street, screaming as I did probably what I was yelling when I went home. The next morning, I nearly cut my foot wide open because I'd apparently smashed a coffee mug against the fireplace in my bedroom.
But I've cooled off since. My bags are no longer packed. In fact, I've metaphorically purchased beachfront property here. I'm not blaming or abandoning the folks who didn't attend Bragg Jam. Rather, I want to know why they didn't and see what we can do to trick them into something good next time it rolls around. Mostly, I want to love on the creative, interesting, curious and adventurous group that I've already found here, and I want to find whomever else fits that description.
Bragg Jam was amazing fun. There were a few things that could've gone better that had nothing to do with the lackluster turn out. But mostly, it was a gigantic party with a bunch of my favorite people. Same goes for this First Friday. So I can't give up. I won't. I love what it feels like when the absence of pain feels like pleasure. It makes the real pleasures even more pleasureable. And that's where I want to live: in a place where my goodtimes are colored, textured and framed by the work I've put into it. I've never been anywhere that required more work to have fun than Macon. I've also never lived anywhere where my imput could make such a big difference in my experience. It's a big, empty canvass, y'all.
Oct 28th -- The Thriller Dance. Whether or not you've already told me or anyone else, let me know if you're in. Send me a message. Put it in these comments. We'll be rehearsing soon. It's going to be a blast. If you don't know what's up, pick up the next 11th Hour. Ask me, ask someone. Just do it.
The opportunities for fun will keep appearing. If you don't want to wait on one, make one. Dig? When you're ready to make memories, jump onboard. The revolution won't be marketed. There will be no focus groups. It will not get good ratings. But it will fun and we are still accepting applications.
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