It has been a difficult two weeks.
Much like the Spanish Armada was for Elizabeth I and the Tet Offensive was for LBJ, March 19, 2009 marked a watershed moment in the life of this intrepid reporter.
The venue: Madison Square Garden. The time: 18:00. The occasion: Unleashed; A Night With Fleetwood Mac.
For our readers who do not share my enthusiasm for the heartbreakingly tempestuous yet wholly genius collaboration of Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham, this night was to be my swan song. I had waited for months to gather under the lights and watch the legendary supergroup reunite before my eyes. At long last, the moment had arrived. I felt confident and well-prepared to take on this mind- and/or life-altering event.
There are certain experiences a person should keep to herself. This concert was one of those happenings. Just know this: I completely lost my mind and am forever changed.
And yet, the glory of those two hours has come with a heavy price, it seems. In the days following the concert, I was unable to shake a nagging feeling of nervous restlessness. It was unlike anything I had experienced before and, for someone familiar with chronic anxiety and general dissatisfaction, I found this disconcerting. After a solid twenty minutes of soul searching, the truth became quite clear to me: I was in the throes of a very deep existential crisis and Fleetwood Mac was to blame. I was horrified.
And yet, the glory of those two hours has come with a heavy price, it seems. In the days following the concert, I was unable to shake a nagging feeling of nervous restlessness. It was unlike anything I had experienced before and, for someone familiar with chronic anxiety and general dissatisfaction, I found this disconcerting. After a solid twenty minutes of soul searching, the truth became quite clear to me: I was in the throes of a very deep existential crisis and Fleetwood Mac was to blame. I was horrified.
I equate the Fleetwood Mac concert to Constantine's dream at the Battle of the Milvian Bridge or World War I for pretty much every French novelist: it was the catalyst for a jarring reconfiguration of my own perspective on reality. All of my anticipation had been fully eclipsed by the reality of the experience. The magic of the moments inside that hallowed concert hall could never be recreated. My sky-high expectations had been shattered.
I had peaked. I was ruined.
I have not listened to Fleetwood in a fortnight. Archetypically speaking, I am not ready to face the music.
Let this be a cautionary tale to you. It is always good, nay, it is always necessary to have a dream. Your dream might be to meet the Dalai Lama or to cure cancer or to correctly determine what a sea monkey is exactly. Mine was to see Fleetwood Mac live in concert. But what happens after the dream is realized? Where does one go from there? This is something I must now grapple with, a new cross to bear.
The good news is this: the memories I have overshadow what seems to be my now rudderless ship. Like Stevie in the eye of a narcotic hurricane in 1976, I may be down but I'm far from out.
Don't call it a come back.
I had peaked. I was ruined.
I have not listened to Fleetwood in a fortnight. Archetypically speaking, I am not ready to face the music.
Let this be a cautionary tale to you. It is always good, nay, it is always necessary to have a dream. Your dream might be to meet the Dalai Lama or to cure cancer or to correctly determine what a sea monkey is exactly. Mine was to see Fleetwood Mac live in concert. But what happens after the dream is realized? Where does one go from there? This is something I must now grapple with, a new cross to bear.
The good news is this: the memories I have overshadow what seems to be my now rudderless ship. Like Stevie in the eye of a narcotic hurricane in 1976, I may be down but I'm far from out.
Don't call it a come back.
AHF
Posts
