Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Twenty-Seven


Their ghosts have been hounding me since the stroke of midnight. They know my weaknesses all too well. Some days your flush and some days your bust.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Moon


"Favorite food? Blues (speed). Miscellaneous likes? Birds. Professional ambition? To smash one hundred drum kits. Personal ambition? To stay young forever. There you have it, the world of Keith Moon effectively encapsulated in a few choice words. Straightforward hedonistic pleasures, cheerfully destructive tendencies, and an unattainable goal, except in the words that Townshend had just written and which Moon alone would live up to/down to: 'Hope I die before I get old.'"

Tony Fletcher, Moon: The Life and Death of a Rock Legend

Monday, March 2, 2015

Snapshots of My Life

It was March, two years ago. The proverbial rock bottom. It's the only secret that I still cling to from those days, my very last drinking days. I knew, then, with the horrifying clarity of a funeral for a loved one, that I was done, that I could never touch the stuff again, that I had once and for all crossed that forbidden line. March brings with it the memories of those events, those charred visions of me at my worst. They're scary. But this song popped on at work today, and I understood that it had to be this way forever -- that I always have to remember those days.

"I wrecked the El Camino
Would have been DWI
So I just walked off and left it
Laying on it's side.
The troopers found it in the morning
They said it's purely luck I wasn't killed
I probably ought to quit my drinking
But I don't believe I will."

James McMurtry, "Rachel's Song"

Friday, February 27, 2015

The Call of the Wild

Oh, cruel February. The two dog nights of February drag their boots through the heavy snow as the grandfather clock slugs its way through the doldrums of the calendar year. But March, March is a month of promise. The muds and fogs and greens of March -- my birth month, fittingly: the dead come back to life during March.

With March comes the stirrings, year after year, deep inside, of some primal call of the wild. March brings with it the memories of boyhood Springs and Summers in the woods behind Millwood Village, the woods that compose the backdrop to my collective childhood memory. As the calendar page turns this weekend, and the great hands of the clock are winded forwards, to the Ides of March, we begin the descent from winter's alpine pinnacle towards the liberation of Spring, and the wilderness of summer.


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society, where none intrudes, 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
- Lord Byron

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

Adulthood

So this is it, huh? This is adulthood. This is what the twelve years of education, the four years of college, the summer jobs, and the internships were for. I can't even say I wasn't warned. For all the years I've professed to be a Springsteen fan, though, it is only now that I can truly hear his words.


I get up in the evening
and I ain't got nothing to say
I come home in the morning
I go to bed feeling the same way
I ain't nothing but tired
Man I'm just tired and bored with myself

You sit around getting older
there's a joke here somewhere and it's on me
I'll shake this world off my shoulders
come on baby this laugh's on me

Stay on the streets of this town
and they'll be carving you up alright
They say you gotta stay hungry
hey baby I'm just about starving tonight
I'm dying for some action
I'm sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book

Friday, February 20, 2015

In Memoriam

The great Hunter S. Thompson shot himself with a rifle ten years ago to the day. "No more games. No more bombs. No more walking. No more fun. No more swimming. Relax -- this won't hurt," he wrote in his suicide letter. Forever ingrained in my memory will be the image of his face on the walls of my college house bedroom. His spirit lives on there and on my bookshelves. There's less truth in the words around us without you, good doctor.





Wednesday, February 18, 2015

February Nights

"Just such a pleasure to tie up above that mainline with a woman's silk stocking and hit the mark and watch the blood rise into the dropper like a certain desert lily I remember I saw once in my child's encylopedia, so red. Yeah, I shoot desert lilies into my arm.

It's been hard, the writing lately. Just all comes in beautiful fragments, like nods now. . . so high. . . guess I'd rather sleep forever and forget. . . but the gnats, they keep buzzing in my ear and the heat and the dreams.

Bob Dylan, he's on the radio. He glows in the dark and my fingers are just light feathers falling and fading down."

- James Carroll