enjoy the fall.

How did I get here? We are in Wlkes-Barre, PA and there is a weird feeling in everything about this instant. We are here for Justin's show, Justin as Big City Lights. We brought him on account of the Big City Dissolvement that went on this past week. So much fighting, so little resolved. It's sad. A death is always sad somehow but, I guess their lights just weren't big enough. So Mess and I brought the Singer here and here we are beside a Pennsylvanian sidewalk, waiting for another door to open and hoping for the best.

He sits in my backseat instinctively pulling his fingers over strings, an acoustic sound to fill the moments we are passing by. This is how we always want it. No matter what he plays- cover or original- he still sounds like Justin which tonight, is just what it is. I'm not sure if I think or feel anything of it. I'm not sure if I've ever heard an acoustic guitar sound so...easy. Gentile. I feel like he's not really playing it, that it's playing itself. His quote, "Guitar's so weird."

How did he get here? A boy who has been Permanently everywhere, who has probably been through too much. How did he end up in my backseat? As he plays I let him chose my inspiration. I'd ask for a song, but whatever he picks is far closer to what I need to hear than any request I could submit. Plus I believe he knows the role he is playing right now as I try to write. He chooses an evenly tempoed melody- a whisper that neither ear nor enemy can deny, and I realize I have run out of adjectives for all of this. I stare at his fingers and I can see into his soul, but when I meet his eyes they seem to be asking me not to tell anyone. The song brings us to the chorus again and I am suddenly quite sad. I think there is a broken heart in my backseat. Broken fingers, no. But broken trust, maybe. Whatever it is, he's trying to hide it. He takes all my questions with a deep sigh, like it's very hard for him to answer. He says there is no secret. But I kinda think there is. There must be. He says the secret is there is no secret. But he pops a string while tuning inside the venue and I think somehow it's a sign he's lying. We laugh at the broken wire because he just can't catch a break. The Singer isn't all bad luck though. I find a string envelope under the stage left monitor, present it to him, and by some stroke of meant-to-be, it contains the very string he needs. I don't say it but the coincidental fate blows my mind. Later in the car, I notice a shiny glare from under the drivers' seat. It's the ring my parents bought me for my 21st birthday that I thought I'd lost months ago. I would have never been in the backseat if we hadn't dragged the Singer out to nowheres land to pull those fingers over strings. He's not bad luck, he's just...luck. Keep it or give it.

I wonder what year we are in. With this pre-show playlist I really feel like I'm not sure. It's cold in this venue and in my memory- it's having such a hard time settling on anything. Things get..more active, but less real. If that makes any sense. We play board games with the kids who came out to see Big City Lights; Mess somehow confuses a tooth and an appendix in her logic. We dance. We try to make Justin jete from one end of the room to the other. He doesn't do that exactly, but he constantly obliges in his signature strut and hip pop. We don't know what we're all doing here together but we are laughing. Mess and I get onstage to open for BigCityJustin. Did a little stand up comedy, a little hardcore intro, but I think our main staple was Dakota by Rocket. We will be moving it to close our set in all future gigs. Later than sooner it is Justin's turn to play. He hops onstage, embodying his blog-given name, and those fingers make the Singer fall into his songs.

"And maybe it's too late to turn around-"
The thing is...I would have driven him to Maui to play this little acoustic set. It's okay if we are all the way from home, if we have no money, if he doesn't need me the way I could possibly need him. Because this is beyond us, this story we are living out. And each of us are replaceable characters; the boy with the guitar and the girl with the smile. Yet this is our turn, and this page is my favorite. I will dog-ear the part when his necklace shines in the spotlight. I will doodle the name of this song and underline his favorite lyric. I have a lot of questions all the time, except when he's playing. Then it doesn't matter. And I'm the one sighing. When he gets offstage he is a herb again, just an anxious boy with a secret. That he'll never tell me. Maybe he tells us while he plays.

This place is cold. So much colder than it should be. This place is real. This sound guy is creepy, and I like him. He's, well, I don't what's in his head but I think at least physically, he's real. These 3 kids who drove an hour to see Big City Lights are fucking real. Effing real. I drove him 2 1/2 hours for these kids. I am the "gratefulest. Most grateful." He thinks he's bad at talking onstage, but he's probably the smoothest I've seen at it. It's least awkward when he's doing the talking. He laughs, and lets us laugh at him. We smile, and he smiles for us. He's real. Hm - whaddya know.

I wonder who the Singer really is. I wonder what he'll become. These lights cast red and purple shadows on this page though, colors too beautiful to see past anything beyond right now. I don't need these questions answered yet.

No stage diving. Means no quitting. That's why he's here. There are pages and pages of Book filled before these, 11 to be exact, all with the harsh details of how a Long Island band imploded this week. But that is just one of the many stories that will stay in here...for now. The aftermath, in my words and his songs, now that is for you. There is no quitting. If you truly believe, then I truly believe you can't quit. No option. No bridge. No broken strings.

My hair is dirty and my feet are cold. All I have right now is this pen, his fingers, and the 12 people in this room. That's real.




...Terica.
"Human Toy" by: the Singer
"Bad" by: Michael Jackson