I had an entry all ready to go. My problem is that I've got this strange fixation with writing my diary entry in the diary entry box. Granted, I KNOW that the diary box is hungry and tends to swallow new entries whole, so that they're never seen again but for the vague traces of clever sentences logged nowhere but in my memory bank. I know this. I know this, yet I still insist upon creating in the box, copying to Word, editing, copying back to the box, and sending it off. Oh, I know. I could write it in Word. I could. But that would be just too simple, wouldn't it? Besides, I don't like the way Word makes the i in the code for Italics a capital letter. It's irritating, in the way that waiters who ask if you want a twist in your martini will bring you an onion instead. That kind of irritating. If I wanted an onion, I'd ask for an onion. If I wanted a capital I, I'd ask for a capital I.
There are many things that I must share with you, and haven't yet. Patience is a virtue, and I thank those of you who have it. And when you're done with it, can I borrow it? Because, patience? It don't live 'round these parts....
Montreal, The Bunac Everyone Everywhere Reunion. (B.E.E.R. But you knew that.)
It was marvellous. It was everything I could have hoped for and more. Not only did we run and jump and play and drink and laugh and trade secrets and eat and dance like our life depended on it, but we actually did stuff, too! It was like the old days in London, when our day-to-day living would be interrupted by bouts of tourism, and we'd go to a museum or a church, or we'd wander a new neighbourhood and discover little treasure chests of stores and markets and such.
You must understand: the camaraderie, the bond that was formed between those who lived at 31 Store St, especially during the summer months of '98... well, there isn't one among us who disagrees with idea that nothing short of magic ties us together. There was something in the water in that hovel of a house that we lived in, I guess. We all marvel at the fact that five years have passed, and yet we all still understand each other like no one in our personal nucleus can.
Poppets, you all know that I love to dance, and that I'll never say no to shaking my bottom to a bit of musical syncopation. You all know that I'm not shy on the dance floor... and yet, and yet...
On the Sunday night, with a high sense of celebration, we all went dancing. We got to the club about ten o'clock, and people, I shook it for the next 5 hours, almost without a break. I had no time for drinking, no time to light a cigarette, no time even for chatting up the hottie by the bar. I danced with wild abandon, in a manner I've never known before. I swayed without fear of looking clumsy, looking fat, looking stupid. I danced like I knew I could, and I felt spectacular. I've never danced that hard, for that long, and that well, ever. Dizzy said to me, "Jesus, you know how to move out there!" and I could attribute it to nothing but the company I kept that night.
Don't get me wrong; I love the friends I see every day. I'm comfortable with them. But... the London Cast of '98... they've got a special hold on my comfort zone, and I'm allowed to say anything, do anything, be anything for them in a way that I won't let myself commit to in my own city.
I don't think I've ever laughed as hard or as much as I did during those five days. It's not something that I'm exaggerating in retrospect, either. This is not a rose-coloured memory. It occurred to me several times over the reunion that I was giggling and chortling more than usual and it felt wonderful. Stella and Dizzy and I... we laugh more than we speak, and it's the most honest laughter in the world. I think the best way to explain it is this. You know when you've got something in your head, and when you're thinking it through, it's clever or witty or particularly hard-hitting and intelligent? Except, when you actually say it, it doesn't have the same punch it did in your head, right? It may sound cluttered and stupid, or it may fall flat. Right. Well. In Montreal, it didn't happen. Just like in London it didn't happen. It's like all the grace and style that I may create with words in my head actually comes out, and lands on the table the way it was intended to land. And the best part is that it happens like that for everyone else, too. No one outdoes each other, either. No one monopolises, no one steals anyone's thunder... somehow, everyone has an oar, and everyone knows when and how to row.
It's hard to explain, poppets. All I know is that organising this reunion was the most rewarding thing I've done in a long time, and I can't wait until we do it again.
That Sunday night, during one of the rare 30 or 40 seconds that I had the sense to sit down and give my weaker leg a rest, Stella perched on the stool beside me, lit up a smoke, and grinned at me. We looked out at the floor and watched our fellow Londonites dance - even the ones who claimed not to dance were dancing as if they were born on the floor. And Stella said to me, "Just think; these are your favourite people in the world, and look how happy you've made them." It warmed me to the core, but I have to admit that the truth of the matter is this: these are indeed my favourite people in the world... look how happy they make me...
Sushi and sangria and sunshine. Old Montreal and art lessons that explained what Holy Sperm was. Irish bands and Irish jigs and Oirish pubs. Boy smells and methane. More alcohol than you can shake a stick at. Laughter... so much laughter...
God, it was wonderful.
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