Groupie confessions — part I: Nick Murphy fka Chet Faker

Arrhythmia month is almost here. With all the shit going on in my life, I forgot to make an appointment at the rheumatologist, and my letter of referral expires in 3 days, but who cares about back pain anymore when I’m seeing Nick Murphy again on August 22?

I’m not gonna lie; I’m neither mentally nor physically ready for this. I’m excited, worried, afraid I’m gonna make it in the front row — so much so that my flesh giving off hormones of fear and all sorts of intense emotion seems to attract all the mosquitoes in the universe, and boom; there goes my sleep again.

I’m even more excited than I was nine months ago in Berlin, because this time around, I know for sure that I’m not gonna meet him; there’s no room for hope or anticipation any longer, yet this makes me more excited than a girl before her wedding’s day, maybe precisely because I know that I can look but I can’t touch. Unavailability, distance, ice-coldness, the lack of eye contact and engagement whatsoever, and a thick smokescreen have always had this preternatural capacity to milk gallons of dopamine out of my brain. If you want me to adore you, you’ll have to ignore me.

I’m not into festivals, because one hour is not enough. Heck, a lifetime wouldn’t be enough either. This is why I want a gig where he’s the only one who steals the show. Two hours of elation and sheer musical ambrosia, during which I can watch his body twist and twirl around the turntable and throw the guitar out of his arms like a toy he’s had enough of; at some point, he’ll take off his coat and the crowd will go wild and scream, “Take it all off!” (sadly, he won’t go that far). I want that hypnotic bassline in Birthday Card to tingle all of my senses and those savage guitar riffs to awaken me from the sensual slumber I’ve been locked in ever since he bid farewell to the crowd in Berlin to vanish into the unknown obscurity of the backstage.

I want to feel alive, and I want beauty.

I’ve been in bad want (and need) for him lately. I don’t know why; maybe because I found out he’s not single anymore? Maybe because only something so beautiful and impossible can stave off all the other shit going on in my life? Maybe because of the lunar eclipse and because Mars has never been this close to Earth since 2003? Maybe because I haven’t met an interesting life form in ages? Maybe because I don’t really have a life?

I have no idea. It’s been a crazy nine months; November 22-August 22. Ha. If the sexual energy he spit out at me that night in Berlin had been literal, I would’ve probably gone into labor while he was performing ‘Talk Is Cheap’ in Milan. Anyway; it’s been crazy nonetheless. I’ve been through so much shit; I gambled my medical future away to write a book that no one’s interested in (him included), but I’m not sorry — it was the right thing to do because I couldn’t have lived otherwise. I’ve been living alone for the most part of these nine months and have had the fewest social interactions ever; I’ve severed ties with some of those whom I had wrongly taken for friends, when they were only plain names in my contact list. I’ve been more alone than ever, and guess what — it felt better than ever. I’ve had a breakdown while in France for a stupid exam because I honestly had no idea what I was doing there, but it was alright — Nick was there for me with his wordless ‘Lesson in patience’ while everyone else would’ve shoved down my throat the same old shitty, unnecessary clichés that even a basic Google search would’ve been ashamed to display. He knows better than they do.

I’m so needy because I could never have the real thing, except in my head; my head has always been such a prolific Petri dish for the most preposterous species of fantasy out there; I’ve lived more in books, films, and songs than in real life, and it shows; it really does, and I know it. Real life and I could never quite work it out, because she’s walled off by countless strata of bullshit and excessive reasoning that drained every other molecule of flavor out of it. Real life is tasteless like freshly boiled white rice and hinges on words I don’t really understand, such as “future”, “job”, “inhibitions”, “the right thing to do”, “priorities”, and so on, and so forth. Real life is a world where I don’t wanna live, for it means that I’d have to be less like myself so she and I could coexist. And I’m not interested in the least in a self-centered partnership like this.

So that’s why I’d rather be alone. Alone and lonely here with me, as Lykke Li’s song “better alone” goes. Alone and lonely, with art, beauty, dark chocolate, bubble baths, Oliver Sacks, Spotify, and Nick. That’s why I’d rather take my life supply once or twice a year, hopping on a flight to Milan with all my teenage hormones and disgusting enthusiasm, horrified that I might not stake a place in the front row, coming down from cloud nine little by little, inch by inch with every single day after the show.

I’ll be here, day in and day out, waiting patiently for a spaceship to take me to the planet where I belong. If my head were a planet, I guess I’d wanna move there.

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