• 6:18am: woken up by Hank (my pug) puking on the carpet

• 7:58am: woken up by a guy across the road puking into a garden

Today is not starting out so great, but last night, oh last night was grand. I had the opportunity of seeing Kris Kristofferson in concert. I knew it was going to be a special evening when I walked into the theatre and saw a lonely microphone set-up on the stage. There was no band, no flashy backdrop or pyrotechnic display, and there was no need. The man walked out carrying a beautiful J45 (guitar) with a harp around his neck, and dressed from head to toe in black. His face was weathered like a sea captain, and the grey in his beard caught the light every time he slightly moved his head. Without a introduction or a ramble he plugged in, and began strumming. The hairs on my arms were standing at full attention, and I was so captivated buy his opening chords that I could barely breathe. There was something in the way he sang his heart-wrenched stories that made me feel like he was talking to me, just me. And with all that he had, he delivered song after song, after song. I bet he played close to 70 songs in total; every other break he would offer up a sliver of history, a snickering one-liner or just a mumbled curse. I was in love.

I’ve been to so many concerts and always take note of the dynamic relationship between the person on stage and their audience. Few performers have the gift of creating such intimacy. It’s not always about their stories or their stage banter. As I witnessed last night, it was in a simple gaze with a pair of traveled eyes.

Dear Kris,

Will you marry me? Think about it and get back to me.

Love

-a.

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