While I try to keep my head and body in the moment, the question forever in front of me is, "Now what?" And that question is never louder than after doing something big. For me (this time at least), that "something big" was performing my first half-hour set at a really nice venue.
I knew it wasn't going to be a huge affair--that I would not increase bar sales, that the crowd would consist of whoever I could convince to come, that my payment would be experience--but it was a show.
I had practiced for weeks and had worked the kinks out of my set. I had invited all my friends and created fliers. I had picked out my shoes and my dress. For two weeks, this show was the focus of pretty much every waking moment.
But, that focus made life brighter. There was something to look forward to--a reason to get excited. It felt like progress, like wonderful, joyous progress. It was a reason to practice and struggle and strive. It was a chance to prove...something. How loud I am, maybe?
It was all so very exciting, but in a half-hour it was done, and I was left feeling like my soul was slowly decompressing within me. As I packed up my guitar, I could see the cliff I was about to plunge over since adrenaline was no longer there to keep me from falling. I enjoyed as much of the afterglow as I could, but the crash was inevitable.
Actually, it was more like finding myself in a fog. I had passed the light post I had been using as a target and now it was all just haze and uncertainty. Really, I still feel like I'm walking through fallen clouds hoping to find another light or at least a silver lining.
Luckily, closer to the end of my nose than the mist is the question