Back to the drawing board.
I am too distracted to write. There is a dishwasher screaming and there’s a bunch of milling about around. In a few minutes some houseguests will arrive and that’ll be it for peace and quiet for some time. I am not in the right headspace to do this. I am forcing it. Fuck ‘em all.
One morning, while I was doing my training, I had an excellent class. If terrible memory serves correct it was my last class of training. I nailed this one – and it was a big deal for me. I designed all materials from scratch and ended up kicking ass. Couldn’t have gone better. There was a balcony attached to the classroom. Three or four stories high and standing over Národní třída. I had no idea why, but I couldn’t start my post-class feedback with the tutor until I went out onto that balcony and listened to Waiting Room by Fugazi. Twice. I wish I could explain it, I can’t. But it felt fucking fantastic. In the sun, with the gold lined roof of Prague’s National Theatre to my right – the hustle of the street below, red trams showing me their roofs – a part of themselves they keep hidden from everyone else. It was sunny, the sky was blue; I was on cloud nine. I was very close to entering the next stage of Prague – one I’ve since come out of just as confident and content.
There was something about that day – that moment really – that still resonates with me today. So much so that I felt inclined to dwell upon it the other day as I walked by the National Theatre and stared up at it’s gold lined roof. This moment represented something, though I’m not really sure what. It was nothing more than a peculiar instant – one that should hold absolutely no weight above any other moment of my time here. But, for some reason, it does, and I don’t know why. I only know that the bassline intro to Waiting Room is bananas.
The guests are here. My time to write is over. At least I got a few words in. The moral of this story is that we should all listen to more Fugazi. Especially 13 Songs.