#livemusic
(a tribute to richard walters)
under the soft stage light
richard walters performed
a song called awards night
he’d written about elliott smith.
my heart ached quietly
for the ghost his voice carried.
sofar fairy –
as i call her in my head –
said i looked like
i was in the clouds,
living in the memory
of someone else.
his energy followed me
into the next morning at work.
half-stunned, half-joking,
they’d insinuate
my joy must have come
from someone’s warm embrace.
how could i explain to them,
that music and words
can whisper through your ribs,
settle in your chest,
and lift you higher
than any touch permits?
richard’s voice just lingered
like the aftertaste of honey,
like rain caught in leaves.
i carried him home in my pulse,
where elliott still lives,
softly whispering between
the notes of his guitar strings.
Aug 3, 2025
Aug 3, 2025 at 7:42 AM UTC
Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands, late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery, presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 12:18 AM UTC
When i am asked who was my first love
I do not name that girl in 2020
I speak the name of a woman who is just so heavenly.
Five albums have become my whole life scriptures
Her voice fills my ears so full that I feel exactly what she did when she put pen to paper.
A striking look to match her voice, her flowing red hair and vintage gowns.
She has become my escape , my anchor, my companion, when I need help I know with her music I know I'm much safer.
Words sung in celebration of femininity and fairytale, folklore and fantasy.
Fans line the barrier in flower crowns and glitter on their faces ready to give themselves, as human sacrifices to that lady singing and dancing on stage.
Every song feels like a comfort blanket but alse a wave of intense emotion.
She has given me not just music but a wider connection to other people who live for the euphoria.
I know I wouldn't be me without her music, and what it has done for me.
You are truly magical, Florence and the machine ✨️.
Jan 25, 2023
Jan 25, 2023 at 5:41 PM UTC
The room forgot who owned the sound
when Nothing More broke the boundary between stage and spine.
Drums rose from the audience like borrowed hearts,
and Johnny Hawkins struck them as if unity were an instrument
we had simply forgotten how to play.
Hands trembled under shared weight.
Rhythm passed from wrist to rib to floor,
a pulse no single body could claim.
This was craft sharpened into communion—
masters who knew that music survives
only when it is given away.
Gethsemane leaned against me then,
her head resting where my chest learned to speak.
The vibration found us together,
bone to breath to quiet agreement,
and the world narrowed to one truth
beating between us.
In that moment, sound chose form.
Her stillness chose me.
Not loudly, not announced—
but with the certainty of gravity
when something finally falls home.
Around us, strangers held the drums,
above us, rhythm held the room,
and within that shared thunder
I understood what unity costs:
attention, presence, and the courage
to stay when the noise could carry you elsewhere
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC
The night fractured when Nothing More took the stage, and time forgot how to move forward.
I watched Johnny Hawkins abandon the expected—drumsticks striking a bass like scripture rewritten in percussion—sound becoming physical, violent, holy.
Beside me stood Gethsemane, and that mattered.
Because this wasn’t just music—it was proof that creation can be rebuilt mid-song, that rhythm can be wielded like a blade and still carve beauty.
Under red light and shaking floorboards, I felt endings loosen their grip.
Some moments don’t ask to be understood.
They ask to be witnessed—together.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 9:16 AM UTC