Drawing out musical lines, I squat, hunched, on the curb of the stage with my index finger twirling the air. (The result of working hours behind the recording window, adjusting mics, and navigating waves of technical equipment). An afternoon of recording has its effects, one being the reluctance to return to real-world duties and dream lazily instead of lost improvisations.
That feeling reminded me of post-concert mist: walking out of the rehearsal room with melodies ringing, the cold of a flute pressed against sweaty palms, standing amidst an empty lot of music stands and scattered chairs. The warm emptiness. The breathing, often hurried. The broad smiles.
The aftermath is like seeing a picture of nebulae for the first time. Every emotion is put to inscrutable exhaustion. The following hours after recordings and concerts always leave me in a state of soft delirium. I pack the equipment, flick off the stage lights, stare at the darkened stage for some time, then move on. Sometimes, when I have the courage, I’ll play a fragment in the dark, but most often I head home, reluctantly aware of the blazing street lamps and the slow departure from that small, floating world.