The day after the ROSALÍA concert I felt, still, quite stunned. Any time I tried to speak of it, tears filled my eyes.

I wore a mask and under it I cried, and gasped, and said any number of expletives in response to the performance.

I’m religious now, I thought the day after. Religious for ROSALÍA. The enormous incense burner, swaying, as the conductor, Yudania Gómez Heredia, feverishly threw her limbs about, dancing on the floor underneath the lit up, strobing thurible, lifted me over the top.

I haven’t ingested hard drugs in so many years, and what a relief to find that not only do I feel religious, but I also feel high, ecstatically high, in the presence of live music, of certain kinds of performances that are meant to overwhelm me.

Which isn’t to say there is no comedown. There is. I felt it, had to succumb to the fall, with a bit of a skid, as I metaphorically hit earth the next day.

What a gift, worth the fall.

My religion: music. My drug: dance. May I get to worship in this way, until my end.

Dear Reader, please note: I will be serving as a nonfiction faculty at the McCormack Writing Center’s Oregon Summer Workshop (formerly Tin House) in Portland from July 11-19. It’s hard to say whether you will see a newsletter from me between those dates. Maybe? Maybe not. Drink water. Stay cool.

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