I feel the world conspires against letting me visit a concert of Mr. Jaroussky this week. I refuse to even look forward to it, and avoid thinking of it. If I catch myself doing it nevertheless, I feel those goose-bumps not of anticipation but of the sense of impending doom spreading on my back, up to the nape of the neck.
If against all odds I will make it to the concert and even dare to physically go in, and if I will survive it without my poor heart giving up… Will I be so bold as to ask for an autograph? I probably will, as if not I will have an imp sitting on my shoulder all the rest of my life, whispering “coward, coward” into my ear. But still I feel like shit; “humble” cannot encompass it.
It is against my very nature to be a true “fan” of someone. I have been in my teenage years, but never since. The only two exceptions to this rule at the moment: Philippe Jaroussky and Jason Isaacs. All other singers, actors, or artists I am very fond of I could calmly shake hands with or meet them randomly on the street without instantly freaking out or fainting.
Yes, it cost me a while to admit it but yes, I am a fan of Mr. Jaroussky’s. Still it is against my nature to completely center my life around someone whom I don’t know in person, and who neither is dependant on me. Hell, I don’t know even every recording of his ever made. But do I need to know? We fall in love long before we know every detail about another person, don’t we?
Anyhow, I will go there in the full awareness that the undeserving mortal and white trash that I am will maybe get a chance to see him, and will forever remember — whilst he, god that he is in my universe, will forget a minute later, maybe thinking “What a weirdo,” before doing so.