accept me! please! please! please like me!
Imagine: It's 8:15, Thursday night, mid August, and the summer sun is finally shying away, allowing the breeze to kiss your bare shoulders. One of your favorite local bands, Georgie James, is setting up their instruments on the historic red stage of Fort Reno Park, in Northeast Washington DC. You return here, every Monday and Thursday during the summer, for free concerts, picnic food, and the grass beneath your bare feet. You don't know all of the history, but it's said to be the site of the only Civil War battle in the District.
As you untie your worn Converse, a friend spreads a blanket over the vibrant green grass. You look back to the stage, up at Laura Burhenn, the lead singer and songwriter of Georgie James, as she leans over her keyboard, plugging in various colored wires. Her champagne blonde hair falls just right, even with beads of perspiration hiding on her brow behind her thin bangs. Yellow polka dots spread over her blue dress and move as she moves. The lead guitarist, John Davis, stands on the opposite side of the stage, but with the same bright blonde hair on his head. You correct anyone who confuses them for siblings. You're well versed in the history of all DC bands, especially the ones that passed over this stage. You know that John Davis once played the drums for Q and Not U. You were here for their final show four years ago.
You skim the crowd, noticing familiar faces. You're skin is covered in perspiration tonight; you're looking forward to the set. Maybe you're thinking about how hip you look, in that sweaty t-shirt and cutoffs. Quite possibly you're feeling a slight grudge against Georgie James creep up inside of you. Resentment, not of their good looks, but because you miss the experimental sounds of Q and Not U from summers past. Maybe you're just realizing you can actually see the definition of a stranger's calves through his tight black jeans, contemplating the possibility of his sewing himself into them.
But wonder if you aren't like all the other scenesters? If even among this crowd of piercings and multicolored hair and passionate individualism, you stand out just a little bit?
Pan over to where I'm standing, front row, off to the right side, peer inside my mind, past my heavy bangs. At this moment, in all of the dying heat and hipness, at this very second, I'm gazing at Laura's shadow as it lies across the peeling red paint, wishing to fill my camera’s frame entirely. Her bright yellow shoes also need to be captured, and I move slowly, stealthily, stealing like a bandit the memory and composition of that yellow on red. That's how I've become. Not oblivious to the emotion and enthusiasm around me, but more worried about how I can capture every thing than being a part of it first hand. I stare at strangers without worry of eye contact because of the heavy camera between us. Even when they look my way, I click the shutter. I want to get a hold of every moment and expression.
I want to remember the friendships of differing colored wires, the greasy hair of the boy beside me, and the distinct yellow glow of the park lights. Pocketing this golden sheen and the way it blankets a stranger’s shoulders. Stealing the purple darks under my friend's eyes. Grabbing a silhouette of a teenage romance under the oak tree. Everything screams to me, everything must be saved. And I want it all, and I want it to be mine. I see values of light and color everywhere I look. I wonder how to capture bliss, to ensnare dignity, what lighting is available. And so that's me, here tonight, different amongst all the individualists because I'm looking at the Roman-nosed profile of the boy behind me, at the jet black hair of the girl in front of me, at the way Laura's mouth sweetly curves into a perfect O when she hits a high note. I'm wondering, how would I capture this song? Where can I find a composition that reflects now, the bitterness of the end of summer, a fresh beginning, an unexplored season? Bright lights with fringed shadows? A pale face against a heavy velvet night sky? Or something else all together? This is how I'm thinking, tonight. This is how I see the world, always.
As you untie your worn Converse, a friend spreads a blanket over the vibrant green grass. You look back to the stage, up at Laura Burhenn, the lead singer and songwriter of Georgie James, as she leans over her keyboard, plugging in various colored wires. Her champagne blonde hair falls just right, even with beads of perspiration hiding on her brow behind her thin bangs. Yellow polka dots spread over her blue dress and move as she moves. The lead guitarist, John Davis, stands on the opposite side of the stage, but with the same bright blonde hair on his head. You correct anyone who confuses them for siblings. You're well versed in the history of all DC bands, especially the ones that passed over this stage. You know that John Davis once played the drums for Q and Not U. You were here for their final show four years ago.
You skim the crowd, noticing familiar faces. You're skin is covered in perspiration tonight; you're looking forward to the set. Maybe you're thinking about how hip you look, in that sweaty t-shirt and cutoffs. Quite possibly you're feeling a slight grudge against Georgie James creep up inside of you. Resentment, not of their good looks, but because you miss the experimental sounds of Q and Not U from summers past. Maybe you're just realizing you can actually see the definition of a stranger's calves through his tight black jeans, contemplating the possibility of his sewing himself into them.
But wonder if you aren't like all the other scenesters? If even among this crowd of piercings and multicolored hair and passionate individualism, you stand out just a little bit?
Pan over to where I'm standing, front row, off to the right side, peer inside my mind, past my heavy bangs. At this moment, in all of the dying heat and hipness, at this very second, I'm gazing at Laura's shadow as it lies across the peeling red paint, wishing to fill my camera’s frame entirely. Her bright yellow shoes also need to be captured, and I move slowly, stealthily, stealing like a bandit the memory and composition of that yellow on red. That's how I've become. Not oblivious to the emotion and enthusiasm around me, but more worried about how I can capture every thing than being a part of it first hand. I stare at strangers without worry of eye contact because of the heavy camera between us. Even when they look my way, I click the shutter. I want to get a hold of every moment and expression.
I want to remember the friendships of differing colored wires, the greasy hair of the boy beside me, and the distinct yellow glow of the park lights. Pocketing this golden sheen and the way it blankets a stranger’s shoulders. Stealing the purple darks under my friend's eyes. Grabbing a silhouette of a teenage romance under the oak tree. Everything screams to me, everything must be saved. And I want it all, and I want it to be mine. I see values of light and color everywhere I look. I wonder how to capture bliss, to ensnare dignity, what lighting is available. And so that's me, here tonight, different amongst all the individualists because I'm looking at the Roman-nosed profile of the boy behind me, at the jet black hair of the girl in front of me, at the way Laura's mouth sweetly curves into a perfect O when she hits a high note. I'm wondering, how would I capture this song? Where can I find a composition that reflects now, the bitterness of the end of summer, a fresh beginning, an unexplored season? Bright lights with fringed shadows? A pale face against a heavy velvet night sky? Or something else all together? This is how I'm thinking, tonight. This is how I see the world, always.