Six years ago, my mother's husband's sister died. Really, though, it's easier to just say, "An aunt of mine died."

An aunt of mine died. There. I said it that way.

She died.

One of the things that annoyed me most about her death, I mean, aside from the whole death thing itself, was the callous nature of the dissemination of her death. Look, I understand that her death was "unnatural," and I understand that sugar coating what happened doesn't change what happened, but it's still hard when a loved one passes away and people are callous about the whole thing.

(Wow, my site is all about death recently. Maybe a "Kitt, better to embrace life going forward than mourn its loss looking backward" is in order.)

This morning, as Kris and I were getting ready to walken the doggen, I heard a loud THUMP as I walked into the kitchen from the living room. Kris commented immediately after the sound, "Oh, he don't feel too good," a comment we make as we kill spiders and flies, or when something bad happens to some animal on the discovery channel.

"Bird?" I called out.

"Yeah."

We have these lovely large windows in the living room. every once in a while, a bird flies into them. The windows haven't shattered, but I wonder sometimes when they will. The thumps from some of these birds is amazingly loud.

I wandered back into the living room and looked for my camera. When birds hit the window, they often leave a interesting splat marks on the window. I find them amusing, and figured there would be one to view.

When I looked up from grabbing my camera, I saw a bird hopping around outside, as I looked out the window through the gap between the table and treadmill. It would jump and flutter, or prance and shake its head. It kept moving around as if dazed. I smiled at the bird trying to shake off its thump against the window, and stepped forward to take a picture.

To see the other bird lying on the ground next to it.

The first bird kept jumping around the second bird lying on the ground. As I watched, the bird who had hit the window and was just lying there, started twitching. One of its legs stuck out straight then started vibrating.

"Is it alive?" I asked.

"It's still moving," Kris answered.

"I don't think that's alive movement."

I set the camera aside, suddenly not really interested in taking pictures of the tragedy I was watching. The first very-much-alive bird started nudging the second not-so-much-alive bird. It would bounce in, nudge, jump away, lift its wings and chirp, stand still, then repeat the process. It was heart wrenching to watch the bird not understand its loss.

I went outside and watched the first bird fly away, and went up to the second bird lying on the ground. As I crouched down next to it, I looked closely and saw no movement. I managed to sit there for about ten seconds before my nose triggered red, and the tears started coming down.

I stood up, walked into the kitchen, Kris watching me puzzled. I grabbed a dog poop bag, walked back outside, and picked up the bird.

It was warm. It was light, so very light. I was worried I was going to crush it, it was so light. A silly worry, to be sure, the bird was dead, I wasn't going to hurt it any more than I would be hurting a branch.

Holding it, looking at it, realizing that the bird was, then suddenly just wasn't, was overwhelming.

I started crying.

I started crying with the sobs of loss, as all the hurt and pain and frustration I'd been holding in for the last few months just came gushing out. I sat down and sobbed at the loss. I cried and cried and cried. When rational thought at how silly I might be at that moment intruded, I cried even harder that I would care how silly I looked in that moment. I cried at how something can be, then just not be a moment later, and the rest of the world goes on. I cried at the thought that at some point in the thinkable future, I will not be, and I can't say I've done anything amazing yet.

Kris stood in the house, probably completely confused. It was just a small little bird who flew into the window, what the heck is wrong with this woman?

Still sobbing, I stood, took a couple pictures of the bird. Bella came rushing up, mouth open to bite the bird, reminding me that we were going to walk the dogs. Kris and the dogs were ready to go, so I bundled up and walked out the door, crying the whole time.

Walking has a meditative quality, which helped me calm down by the end of the block, so at least I wasn't sobbing. I took pictures of flowers on the walk to help console me somewhat. Between the walking and taking pictures of bright colors, I was feeling somewhat better, but still very sad.

Last Tuesday, I submitted my YCombinator Winter 2010 funding application. Since then, I've thought about it a lot. Not too much, I don't believe, because it asked a number of questions that were important for me to think about, but enough that I have now have an opinion on what I submitted.

My new opinion is tempered by my understanding that I am my most severe critic, yes, but I feel it's still an honest look back.

My opinion is that I screwed up.

Not in the idea. Not in submitting the application. Not in the process of better defining what I want to do with the project.

When you're going cross country for a conference, and one of your favorite bands schedules a show (a free show, no less!) two days before the conference, all of two miles from the conference location, well, you kinda have to go to the show.

Okay, no kinda about it. You have to go.

Really.

Really really.

Brooklyn Beta has workshops tomorrow, which meant that meeting and greeting and networking started tonight. While I was sad to miss it, really, favorite bands that you missed by one day at SxSW last year win.

So, after googling for directions, praying I'd walk the right way, notes scribbled in my tertiary brain, I left an hour before the show was supposed to start for a 31 minute journey. According to Google, that is. Things work out less well when, say, humans are involved.

Having adventured out earlier today, I knew which way to go for the subway station I wanted, and I also knew which street to avoid in order to minimize discomfort and safety anxiety. What I didn't know was which platform to go to at the subway.

Sometimes I wonder if people who work for public transportation like messing with tourists. Not like they'll ever see you again, right? The woman who answered my questions and sold me my ticket, pointed twice, once without prompting and once as a confirmation to my repetition of her words, to the subway entrance on the left. When I arrived on the platform she indicated, I approached a couple and asked them to confirm I was on the right platform.

I was not.

I ran up the stairs and at the top, asked another traveller where I needed to go, where was the other N platform, was I going in the right direction? He found it for me, it was to the RIGHT not the left, and I dashed over to it as he ran down the stairs to catch the train I nearly made him miss. As I ran down the stairs I realized the train was at the station, and, oh oh! I better hurry lest I miss it!

So, I ran down the stairs, dove through the doors, came to a rolling stop in a seat just as the doors shut and the train started moving.

Only to realize I had boarded the wrong train.

So, there's the N train, the one I wanted, and the R train, which sorta runs along the same way, diverges then rejoins the N train. I was on the R train, going in nominally the right direction, but not the most efficiently.

Great.

The map on the train indicated that the N would meet up at the next station (maybe), so I exited at the next station, looking at my watch. I had already used up 25 of my 60 minutes, and I hadn't even left Brooklyn yet. Yikes! After being unsure of where I needed to be, and watching the N train I was supposed to be on zoom by me, I ran up and over to the other platform, and asked a guy standing there where I needed to be. Turns out, N doesn't stop at the station, and the R is what I wanted.

Whoops.

I went back over to my original platform, waited another 10 minutes, and boarded the next R train, trying desperately to concentrate on my book, instead of worrying if I was going to make the beginning of the show or not. I've been trying to worry less about things out of my control, and reading, disappearing into a book, is a way that I can do that. Once I submerge into a book, I'm fine, getting there takes effort sometimes.

At 7:53, the train arrived at the 8th Avenue (as I was corrected by a subway employee, not Street) NYU stop, found the correct stairs (8th and Broadway NE!), dashed up them and started walking. I stopped, confirmed I was walking the right way, and started hustling to Webster Hall.

Of note, New Yorkers do not smile even when you smile while meeting their gaze.

Also of note, New York drivers love their horns.

I made it to Webster Hall with 2 minutes to spare, and was met with a most disastrous of sights: a line.

No, not one line, but two.

Two giant lines.

The first one looked like you needed tickets to go in (so that one was wrong, the show was free), so I went to the other line. It wasn't moving, and I started worrying I was in the correct line. I swear, I talked to more people tonight asking for directions and help and information than I had in the previous month. The people in front of me were in line for the Drums. Okay, wrong line. I went to the other line, and talked to a reporter who said that the other line was also for the Drums. A woman in the line confirmed the Drums show. Puzzled, I went back to the first line and asked the bouncer what was up. No, the second line was for Drums, as was the first line.

Um....

Between the two lines was a guy putting wristbands on people. I approached him and asked if he could please tell me where the heck Manic Bloom was playing. He turned around, check the posted show times, turned back and said, "Here. Downstairs."

YAY!

Wristband on, I went downstairs, to see Manic Bloom on stage, finishing up the last part of tuning. I wandered over to the bar and ordered a soda water as they paused, the filler music stopping. I grabbed my drink, noticed the bar/hall wasn't as crowded as I was expecting, and moved to the back of the middle of the room, just under the video cameras.

And then they started playing.

Okay, so, there's something about small places and loud music and odd acoustics that just says, "Ouch."

I managed about thirty seconds before I regretted not having earplugs. I can't believe I went without earplugs. I don't go to shows without earplugs (well, can't say that anymore), and, oh, I needed earplugs. Barring that, hell, shove some tissue into my ears, anything, or I'd have to leave. I went to one of the security guards at the place and asked where the bathroom was. I thought he said there wasn't a bathroom in the place, so, noticing he had earplugs in, I asked if he had any extras.

He looked at me, "Earplugs?" When I nodded, he reached over to the pile of earplugs on the counter and handed me a set.

You have to love a place that hands out earplugs at shows.

You just have to.

Drink in hand, earplugs in ears, I wandered back to my spot, and fucking enjoyed the show.

Wow.

Despite the space with everyone spread out in the hall, Manic Bloom played awesomely. To my delight, they played Running from the Scene (yes, still on my infinite repeat list), and oh boy, it was awesome live. Yay yay yay yay yay!

I was slightly sad that I and three other people seemed to be the only people that knew the songs and knew the lyrics. We seemed to be the only people moving to the music. It's like the concert you go to and you want to stand up and just jam to the songs, but everyone else's butt is glued to the seats. Ugh.

Fortunately, the mood passed, and I did not care much, because the music was awesome, and I was moving to it.

The set was only about 40 minutes long, starting slightly after 8 and finishing at 8:45. When they were done, I dashed over to the table in hopes of talking to the band. David was at the table, talking to a couple people, so I waited for him to be done.

I bounced.

And waited.

Did I mention the bouncing?

Yeah.

I bounced until he was done with the one guy, but then he started talking to another guy, and a couple more people came up, and that was it. I walked around them all and arms wide, pretty much SQUEE'd at David. He must have been ready for it, because he laughed and said, "Kitt, right?"

Yes, indeed.

Totally awesome.

We talked for as long as I could manage to monopolize David's time, and bonded over PHP. I met Andy, the bassist (*swoon* and a reminder that I need to pull out my bass already and start practicing again), and asked about the possibility of lunch tomorrow. They have a full day planned (very exciting, appointments and interviews and the like), but maybe! As they are staying the night outside the city, their times for travelling back into the city are uncertain.

David suggested I stay and listen to the next band, but really, I came to see Manic Bloom, and on that high decided to head back to my hotel. There's a chance we'll meet up tomorrow, maybe, maybe not. If I miss them tomorrow, I'll have to meet up at their Muncie show.

Shucky darn.

The journey back to the hotel was far far more efficient. I managed the correct train (yay!) and the fastest way back to the hotel (yay!). I managed to read for a little bit before the urge to people watch became too strong.

I thought it odd that none of these people seemed interested in their surroundings. Hey, they're on a train going over a bridge that's 100 years old - that's really cool! They're on a train with all these other people with interesting lives - that's really cool! There's a crazy guy ranting about how doing drugs will get you kicked out of camp (but drinking alcohol won't) - that's really, okay, not so cool, but still it's interesting.

I don't know, I feel some people are too jaded about the wonders of their own lives.

At this moment, though, I'm in full wonderment. I mean, HOW COOL that I travelled 4750 kilometers to see the creators of my favorite song, AND THEY KNEW WHO I WAS.

Yeah.

Bouncing!