A: Sitting in the second row center, holding the love of my life’s hand while one of “our songs” is played by a man I intended to marry when I was ten, and who then played a request in honor of a dearly departed friend;
B: sitting in the 4th row between two of the best friends I have ever had, listening to the group that brought us together (all of whom I intended to marry when I was ten) play a show that I had dreamed of since before puberty while simultaneously knowing it was all but impossible; or
C: standing 10 feet tops from one of the top 5 artistic influences of my late teens and early 20s (who I, yes, intended to marry when I was ten but the aesthetic relationship deepened substantially the year I read the early Neftoon Zamora drafts and Martin Heidegger simultaneously) as he gave one of the most beautiful concerts/storytelling sessions it has ever been my privilege to witness?
The answer is…
D: Never mind. That alleged story problem suddenly strikes me as more of a weird Fandom Koan anyway. What I AM gonna do is share my impressions of concert C (as well as my blurry iphone pics of the same), which will hopefully be a little more coherent than my moderately stunned reflection on Concert A, and more, er, concise than the Proustian geeksquee review of Concert B. (I have always wanted to use the phrase “Proustian geeksquee” in a sentence but never realized it until this moment…)