T minus 4 days. Austin via Soul Plane, Air Civic, flying shuttlebus. The last plane I was on I had a panic attack for five hours there and back, feeling every second of that marathon.
Cross of Jesus on. Anxiety med cocktail at the ready. The things we do to face our deepest fears, screwing courage to the sticking place.
Demon writer Dewey interprets the cabaret, the crisply enunciated consonants, the confident melodrama, the sheer elongated presence. They all dare to be ignored, and it proves perfectly impossible. His contributions are monstrous, a crucial postmodern spin on the legacy of yore. His single life is an astrologically epic, disco ball-illuminated hymn of unwilling isolation that works just as well anywhere he goes.
Lovely. (Get out of your head! Foucault the pain away!) Dewey’s insistently intimate voice pushed his life’s central metaphor beyond imagery and into a tactile representation of the closeness he wants but can’t quite grasp. What’s missing, beyond the guy who hasn’t shown up, is that nagging vocal that hovers somewhere between sublime and corrosive. Right now, it’s all TBD.”