She was wearing a white faux fox coat and smoking in the cold.
She had lots of makeup and I was surprised to hear her speaking with a strange accent.
I stood close to her in the gang outside the stage door and pretended to smoke with the other roadies, just to hear her story. I always feel odd asking a stranger directly, as if their life story should be something they only give you at gunpoint. Mostly people give it away, like bad sex, and its like looking into the sun and trying not to blink.
It turned out, she was going to be our host for the night. We lugged our stuff inside and honestly, I couldn't tell when we were in the house proper. I took her living room for a mud room. Because it was covered with mud and dirt, the floor-mostly, but even the furniture seemed covered in dirt.
She was a farmer during the day, when she wasn't wearing mini skirts and high heels. She had come from an enemy formerly known as Russia, or Georgia, and/or she had moved around a lot in her life. There was one story of fleeing from one wartorn country to find that her new country was also suddenly at war. And then she came to the Georgia in America, where people carried guns in the back of their trucks. She generally preferred not to talk to people.
But she LOVED music.
Her shelves were full of cds and records. Even the record player was covered with dirt and when we heard her at work in the morning, it was as if she considered herself a DJ for each of her crops. The corn liked Heavy Metal but the flowers preferred Punk. Unfortunately for us, she started work at 5am, when we were just winding down. We covered our heads with the compost covered sheets and pillows stuffed with corn husks and tried to muffle the sound of her giant speakers feeding music to the fields just outside our window.
The Lumineers, Cleopatra
She had lots of makeup and I was surprised to hear her speaking with a strange accent.
I stood close to her in the gang outside the stage door and pretended to smoke with the other roadies, just to hear her story. I always feel odd asking a stranger directly, as if their life story should be something they only give you at gunpoint. Mostly people give it away, like bad sex, and its like looking into the sun and trying not to blink.
It turned out, she was going to be our host for the night. We lugged our stuff inside and honestly, I couldn't tell when we were in the house proper. I took her living room for a mud room. Because it was covered with mud and dirt, the floor-mostly, but even the furniture seemed covered in dirt.
She was a farmer during the day, when she wasn't wearing mini skirts and high heels. She had come from an enemy formerly known as Russia, or Georgia, and/or she had moved around a lot in her life. There was one story of fleeing from one wartorn country to find that her new country was also suddenly at war. And then she came to the Georgia in America, where people carried guns in the back of their trucks. She generally preferred not to talk to people.
But she LOVED music.
Her shelves were full of cds and records. Even the record player was covered with dirt and when we heard her at work in the morning, it was as if she considered herself a DJ for each of her crops. The corn liked Heavy Metal but the flowers preferred Punk. Unfortunately for us, she started work at 5am, when we were just winding down. We covered our heads with the compost covered sheets and pillows stuffed with corn husks and tried to muffle the sound of her giant speakers feeding music to the fields just outside our window.
The Lumineers, Cleopatra
