I had this nasty dose of writers block lately. Sorry about that. This might
be irrepressibly screwed, I wouldn't know, I just typed it out and then
posted it, no editing, no re-reading.
To try and combat writers block I update my website, and since I'm writing this and I couldn't think of anything to do to it, I made a stupid 'thing'.
To view this crap, -laughs- I really mean that too, go to:
Yeah. Concert time chidlin!
Oh my sweet merciful Lord! I think I'm going to die! Nervous. so nervous. this neon tape on the carpet is making me dizzy. Or maybe that's the gripping fear that's shredding my insides, piece by piece.
"Michael!" I hear an unfamiliar voice behind me call out. A male voice, like a piercing beam of light it tears through me. What the hell?
Suddenly the dull roar of the crowd out in the club rises like mercury in boiling water. Screaming, bellowing, whistling. It never really hit me how popular we are until now. A thousand or so people out there like our music. And this is one of the smallest gigs on the tour. I'm hyperventilating! KENNEDY! CONTROL YOURSELF!
"Cera!" A mere second later and the noise levels lift another million decibels.
"Maria!" This sound is almost unbearable. How I would imagine a banshee would sound if you gave it a megaphone.
"Kennedy!" It takes a nanosecond to register that the voice is calling out to me now. Rattling me to the core I can feel the unseen eyes of whoever the voice belongs to penetrating me. Visibly violating me. It's not just the crowd that's scaring me now.
My legs, shaking, stumble towards the curtain that bars us off from the roaring, raging mob. My subconscious pushes my arm out to the side and I feel my fingers close around the neck of my Les Paul. A quick glance to my left confirms this. As I force my feet to lead me to the stage entrance the handmade leather guitar strap that Michael's brother, Jarrad, had given me for my last birthday. It's embossed with blue vinyl that's been fashioned in the shape of flames, then, in gold, along the left hand side, closest to my arm are the words "Pour respirer. Pour savoir. Pour amour." French for 'To breathe. To know. To love.' Jarrad was a really great guy.
Oh jeez, I'm about to go on stage to play our first concert since this sudden success and I'm getting all nostalgic about Mike's dead brother. 4 steps.
3 steps. This crowd is at a point that is beyond loud. I've heard jet engines that are quieter.
2 steps. I wonder what would happen if I froze and couldn't sing. Think they'd all kill me?
1 step. Man, I can do this! Gotta stop with the doubt. I can do this, I can.
Stage entry. I can do this.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! AURORA!"
"Holy Shit."
To try and combat writers block I update my website, and since I'm writing this and I couldn't think of anything to do to it, I made a stupid 'thing'.
To view this crap, -laughs- I really mean that too, go to:
Yeah. Concert time chidlin!
Oh my sweet merciful Lord! I think I'm going to die! Nervous. so nervous. this neon tape on the carpet is making me dizzy. Or maybe that's the gripping fear that's shredding my insides, piece by piece.
"Michael!" I hear an unfamiliar voice behind me call out. A male voice, like a piercing beam of light it tears through me. What the hell?
Suddenly the dull roar of the crowd out in the club rises like mercury in boiling water. Screaming, bellowing, whistling. It never really hit me how popular we are until now. A thousand or so people out there like our music. And this is one of the smallest gigs on the tour. I'm hyperventilating! KENNEDY! CONTROL YOURSELF!
"Cera!" A mere second later and the noise levels lift another million decibels.
"Maria!" This sound is almost unbearable. How I would imagine a banshee would sound if you gave it a megaphone.
"Kennedy!" It takes a nanosecond to register that the voice is calling out to me now. Rattling me to the core I can feel the unseen eyes of whoever the voice belongs to penetrating me. Visibly violating me. It's not just the crowd that's scaring me now.
My legs, shaking, stumble towards the curtain that bars us off from the roaring, raging mob. My subconscious pushes my arm out to the side and I feel my fingers close around the neck of my Les Paul. A quick glance to my left confirms this. As I force my feet to lead me to the stage entrance the handmade leather guitar strap that Michael's brother, Jarrad, had given me for my last birthday. It's embossed with blue vinyl that's been fashioned in the shape of flames, then, in gold, along the left hand side, closest to my arm are the words "Pour respirer. Pour savoir. Pour amour." French for 'To breathe. To know. To love.' Jarrad was a really great guy.
Oh jeez, I'm about to go on stage to play our first concert since this sudden success and I'm getting all nostalgic about Mike's dead brother. 4 steps.
3 steps. This crowd is at a point that is beyond loud. I've heard jet engines that are quieter.
2 steps. I wonder what would happen if I froze and couldn't sing. Think they'd all kill me?
1 step. Man, I can do this! Gotta stop with the doubt. I can do this, I can.
Stage entry. I can do this.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! AURORA!"
"Holy Shit."