Riding shotgun in a strangers truck, I watch rain-soaked clouds lumber their way across the sky. The flash as lightning touched one gray corner to the other brought photos to my mind. I imagined the shot God got, of this lonely truck traveling an asphalt river through the trees. I saw us as only a blip on the radar, a minor occurrence of things. With the idea firm in my mind I made an airplane with my hand and set it into flight out the passenger window. The stereo was too loud, the ride was bumpy, and the cab smelled distinctly of cigarettes and faintly of tea; it was the ride of my life. We followed the yellow down roads that would never know a streetlight, would never know anything but a numeric name, but bent in all the right directions just the same. I looked in on lives I’d never know, stories never told, books with better chapters than my own as a new generation of clothes danced on lines for the first time. Somewhere a heart was just beginning to break, somewhere a body was found, somewhere a kiss was discovered, and somewhere a wish came true. Around here, it’s business as usual, skimming our way along, just passing through. We make all the right stops, turn on all the right signals, and obey the strictest of signs with obliging smiles; we’re no one of particular interest. Yet particularly interested I am in the rhythm of life, the slow turning of the gears. Out here it’s something you’ve got the time to talk about; but busy we are, because sometimes the quietest conversations make for some of the largest changes. Securely seated silently in vinyl I found time to listen to the so often drowned out voice of reason, to let my mistakes breathe and to finally make some peace with myself and the hero within.
These are the wars we chose to fight. These are the hearts we chose to break. These are the heights we set ourselves upon because we believed we belonged somewhere above ourselves; any failure to become is only a failure to believe. Or so it seems, sliding mostly unnoticed through towns without a Starbucks, some without a Wal-Mart, some untouched by time. Were the demons of apathy any different here than in the jungle of concrete where I lay my head most nights? Which battles meant more here? Which ones aren’t even waged? If we’re at the very least only partially products of our environments what forms do these produce, and what dreams come to those who stand daily in these alien streets, seek love through its doors, and build families in its homes? The roads I’ve mapped in still frames in my mind, I must admit now, casually reflect a familiar lifetime; one I sometimes call mine. A reckless meandering between trying to walk my own road, and drifting off to anther’s, blinded by the illusion of separate shades of green. It only took twenty some years to find that we make our own dreams, and every ones choices are half chance. We’re so often just creatures of circumstance; half running, half stumbling, with destination unknown until we’re somewhere that feels like home. The current version of which was still several miles out and I was remarkably pleased at that.
Beneath the first warm rain in months we passed twenty different versions of ourselves, in every different stage of life, and wondered silently to ourselves what it might be like to have spoke to God beneath these vanilla skies. Then we’re back to counting mailboxes, turning the miles with idle discussion over graffiti and the sudden clearing of the rain. A mile outside the where the city’s dense roots begin, I made note of the changing shapes of homes, and the dancing clothes on the lines. It was springtime everywhere. Word traveled fast. I tried hard to make separations from the two worlds, but they kept coming together. I might dream of the river, but I’ll wake up with the city on my mind; because this is where I chose to stand my ground.
Alright, it’s like this
you see, I’m addicted to a kiss
I know it sounds kind of odd, like gee who’s not
but this, this goes deeper than that
because no matter how much it tears me apart I never fight back
and I’m always looking for another smooth way to fall under attack
the rules must’ve changed though,
and I was away from my desk, I don’t think I got the memo
We’re strangers then friends, then more than that
then strangers again, pretending to be friends with just these memories of combat
and then lie behind eyes and between thighs
in a last ditch effort to disguise
that love has died,
and you had nothing to do with the demise
but still feel empty somewhere inside
you see an addiction’s like that
it can make you do some pretty crazy things
like buy an eight dollar mocha frapp, or get on stage
but this one’s unique in that it also inspires
from changing tires in the rain to running headlong into fires
and it keeps you awake at 4am
idly pacing around with the phone in your hand
drives you to bars where no one knows your name
and kept dancing with you even a couple drinks after you forgot shame
sends you treking through the mall
for four to eight hours of, “does this make my butt look too small?”
it’s conversation had completely between eyes
and the beauty in the space between where dark oceans meet blue skies
it’s letting someone in somewhere that no one else sees
and temporarily forgetting how to breathe
and dancing through the rain
well, maybe not dancing, but you get the idea
running with that kind of smile feels pretty much the same
but make no mistake, the addiction’s hard to break
it’s made the strongest of men ache
stolen the humblest mens faith
but oh, what a beautiful crescendo, what music we made
when it was about the moment not the pressures of fate
because my addiction’s about compliment not compeletion
it’s not about belief but rather someone to believe in
it’s empathy even when it’s not so comfortable
and all the things not quite as tangible
like talks over tea over the universe and dreams
and discussions in bed over the trains in her head
and how nothing was what it seemed
and the days you tell your buddies you’re too tired to go out
just to hang with her watching movies at the house
the breakfast she burnt, not worrying about what we weren’t
and someone to share the lessons we learned
and burning your well-kept clutch with a grin
because she thought it was a good idea to learn manual transmission
and the way she says there was this girl checking me out in every place we go in
it’s not jealousy, she just believes in me, maybe thinks they should be
and truthfully, that’s good enough for me
it’s an addiction and this is probably just withdrawal
I guess she was right, one pill makes you big, and one makes you small
because lately I just feel like a strung out addict
telling everyone that I’ve got this kicked
but still jonesing for the way that it feels to please her
out in search every day of a brand new dealer
I tread dangerous waters here
because what’s now become dark was once clear
what’s now become hate was once just fear
we’ve been here before, though
too many times now to claim we didn’t know
hell, the proof is out there running your casino
we get led to easy, get fed to easy
street gang shootouts over turf and self-worth
and a government that’s become more of a church
it seems like we’ve forgotten what we came here for
and those most guilty of the treason
those that believe it’s about who, not what you believe in
are out there claiming they’re the only ones with reason
How many promises can we just erase now
since it’s not just about race now
both white and black are killing for crack
ignoring their children to chase that stack
for bills, and pills, a few cheap thrills
if we’re just going nowhere, why’s it always uphill?
none of it makes any sense,
but here we all stand just behind the fence
telling ourselves that it’s just self-defense
believing in the weakness they instill in us
buying these things we don’t need just to fill us
until we’re in debt to our neck and barely getting fed
chasing a dollar more an hour until we’re finally dead
but what can be done, we’re only just one
we’ve got these words, but they’ve got guns
and you’ve got to work to live, that’s what my Uncle said
my dad worked all his life, so that I could do this
but I’m lonely, because my work owns me
but I did everything that bastard Uncle told me
and now he says he wants ME for the Army
I’d like to first ask to be excused for the unorthodox organization of thoughts that may follow; I’m suffering from a bit of jet lag. I arrived late this morning from an odyssey through the lower end of Cancun. In my ears, though, I couldn’t shake the distant melody of a slightly out of tune trumpet playing a Spanish lullaby and the sweet smell of slow cooked maze drifting through the air. I can still see myself standing there amongst a hundred moving strangers like turning gears just as it was standing solitary amongst hundreds, beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. The strange streets momentarily familiar made me consider, more than a few times, making Paris my home. There was comfort in the motherly rocking of a late night train through the city that I’ve never found elsewhere. Like the arms of a woman I met in east Dublin, a beautiful relationship based mainly on the way she said my name; like a song about love. In Italy I toured ruins and found history I wanted for my own, a rich past, full of pride. Stumbling through Greece I saw eternity rising up like a fog from the grass, the stumps of a forgotten metropolis’ bursting up like trees in some stone swamp.
I spoke about Zen with those that had discussed little else all their lives, talked politics with those that didn’t know the meaning of partisanship, and saw the meaning of third world first hand. I traveled cobblestone and dirt walkways trodden down by hundreds of years of feet before mine and felt, somehow, like it made my life more meaningful. I saw the stars from the other side of the world and found they looked much the same. While traveling down the coast of Australia I learned the language of the never-ending-moment, and the obligation that knowledge brought with it. Having done that, I spent the next few days diving for meaning in the crystal blue, with periodic expeditions across the soft beaches. On the island of Japan I found individuality while teaming within the hive; learned to appreciate the value of one brick amongst thousands, and sang karaoke with people who barely spoke the language.
Through the hesitant skill of a shy Russian girl I learned the true meaning of ‘ warmth of a kiss,’ and re-learned the power of ‘goodbye.’ I can still smell her perfume, somehow still imprinted on the shirt I bought from that market-place in India; it keeps me company on the longer journeys between. Like on the train through the deserts of Arizona, where God asks heavier questions and the Devil’s a place inside, I arrived at the canyon with St. Petersburg still weighing heavy on my mind. I stumbled upon true salvation on the cables of San Francisco, a subversive feeling of unity, and this innate understanding that everyone is born free. Atop the mountains of Colorado I saw the terrible mess we’d made, and the beauty of what we had been handed. The snowy pines offered little sympathy.
I slept in the home of a stranger in Manchester and discussed recent revolutions in metaphysics. Sometimes, on the days just before spring, I can close my eyes during the right kind of morning rain and still hear their voices. I lost everything I had held dear to me to a taxi on Madison and 33rd and found the hospitality of New Yorkers to be vastly underestimated. I rode a well broken horse across some unnamed Texas plains and watched lightning touch down in the distance, bringing our overall smallness to the forefront. I discussed the sense of enlightenment with a Sherpa in the shadow of the Himalayan mountains, but he only chuckled and tapped my cheek. In the falls of New Zealand I washed the burdens away, and remembered how to fly. Landing is the really tricky part.
After the last bit of my humble, and still a bit alien, suitcase was emptied I stared at the capacity dresser and wondered what the new owner of my old suitcase must think of me. I had told everyone I was coming home, and that’s what I did, but it’s really beautiful this time of year. Here, was only the place that I was right then, and luckily enough where I collected all my best things; family, friends, and record collection included. It came to me, later that evening, having a beer with my professional pals whilst sizing up politicians and waitresses, prophets and rock stars alike, that somewhere there was a girl in Russia telling my story. I couldn’t begin to believe that I was somehow better than any of them, but in the back of my mind there was a man resting on a barstool in Manchester telling his friends of a strangers ideas, and adding with some pride, that he helped him on his way. It occurred to me then, like it had been waiting there for me ever since I left, perhaps aware that it’d be the last place I’d check, that we’re only as big, only as important, as the variety of those that hear our stories.
She had a southern accent and a way with words. By the time she was done speaking, I had so lost myself in the melody of her voice that the actual expression of the terms was lost on me. She was beautiful. She wore an old t-shirt and baggy jeans that dared the observer to underestimate what they concealed. She was embarrassed; embarrassed either by asking for my number or by the way my eyes wouldn’t separate from hers. I was sure she knew something I didn’t and that if I could only catch a glimpse in the right light I’d find it hiding beneath the surface, and I still may hold that conviction. She certainly did have more than a few things to teach me and I, the ever-eager pupil, found no reason to object to the lessons brought before me. I’d ask questions just to hear her speak and imagined the songs she’d sing while falling in love.
Laying naked across her sheets I realized at once that she was better than me in nearly every way, and I thought of ways to tell her so, but I knew she’d never believe me. She asked me questions about where I’d come from, and things that didn’t seem to matter at all, like my favorite color, or my favorite day of the week. I asked her questions about the world and her dreams, the regrets, the things she’d have changed, and the things she’d learned to appreciate. We watched movies to pass the time without having to separate. When there was silence we sat with it, enjoyed it, and traded stories with our eyes. It was so close to being in love that sometimes we could trick ourselves into believing we’d been doing this for years.
She made me breakfast in her underwear, explaining that it was the only outfit that felt comfortable, and I fell for the way she shrugged her shoulders when things were simpler than I thought. A naïve sense of honesty that is simply bewildered at the thought of something other than the truth, she offered me more than just a voice I could sing along to, she gave birth to a strange manner of hope that even she’ll never understand. It was just the way she shrugged her shoulders. When I put my arms around her small waist, felt the rhythm of her life beneath her soft skin, I kissed her neck, and thought a little bit about ghosts and the person I never imagined I’d be. Across the linoleum we danced to music that wasn’t playing and, God, she danced like she’d never been told she wasn’t beautiful.
When we both agreed the song was over, she never took her head from the safety of my neck, and for minutes, maybe hours, that’s how we stood. Two strangers trying their best to be one person. She wanted to know how I’d come to this, over coffee, eggs, and buttered toast, but I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. How many roads; how many wrong turns? How many chances; how many misses? How many trusted; how many lost? Too many to count, and too intricate to recall even first person. Those ghosts, forgotten via a kitchen floor dance, came whispering back to my ears. I wanted to tell her stories of heartbreak, and how I’d come to understand what appreciating another person really meant. I wanted to tell her about falling in love twice with the same person, and how much it had taught me, and stole from me regarding trust. I wanted to tell her about the stripper, the pothead, and the ditz.
I just kissed her, because for the past twenty-four hours, only the moment had mattered, and it had been the most fantastic ride; like finally getting in the drivers seat after so much time spent sitting in the back. It wasn’t so much control gained, as it was the view and how different things looked when forward was the important view. I let myself believe she understood this too when she kissed me back. I listened to her sing songs through conversation for a few more hours before she left. After she was gone and the music had died I found myself quickly surrounded by well-armed silence. I discovered an ache in some uncharted area of my heart for the melodies her words made and the way it felt to be the one to sing along and thought to myself: so this is moving on.
Perspectives, they become what and who we are. Via different viewpoints we find new ways to accomplish goals, overcome mistakes, empathize, and defeat obstacles. Great artists, poets, and writers of all kinds have an uncommon ability to play puppeteer with our perspectives. I strove to lift the strings on this one. Written from the perspective of one of my friends girlfriends. He was diagnosed with cancer a few years back. He made a full recovery, but they never did. Ever since I tried on her skin whilst writing this song I’ve always felt an inexplicable sadness over that. The song’s called “Black Keys” drop me a line with comments or suggestions.
It’s hard to believe it’s been almost ten years now
The shadows don’t seem any darker anyhow
But the smiles that I can see through aren’t all my age
and the poison they’re feeding you, won’t ever change
But her smile falters, when the hours get longer
and the frames that hold her memories, burn stronger
Because falling is what all the good ones do
and she’d never do anything she shouldn’t do
On another hallowed Indiana Hollywood night
She smears her lipstick and he holds her tight
But when he waved goodnight, to the only star
I lay back with an angel, to wonder who we are
She only plays on the black keys
She only sings in the rain
She only laughs at the right times
when there’s no holding it in
She only plays on the black keys
She only sings in the rain
She only smiles when he’s holding her
He’ll never hold her again
Much easier to remember, than the look on her face
I could find someone ’round here to take your place
These buildings are filled with issue-less victims
turning the world around with how they pick ‘em
And their words are so sharp, they cut right in
make her feel strong, make her feel cool, make her fit right in
But promises are glass in the meteor shower around you
anyone who wants to keep one is just a naive fool
so you turned the gun back and fired just one shot
for all the dreams and promises, the world finally got
And when I waved goodbye to the very last star
I lay back with an angel, to wonder what we are
I left, while she faded away
turned my head for fear
I’d have nothing to say
but when the words came
they felt just right
once and for all, this is goodnight
I was,
breaking down
I couldn’t find my feet
I couldn’t find the ground
I was,
breaking free
I went looking for something
and lost track of me
I got lost,
on my way
I say that I lost track of time
truth is I wanted to stay
but I know,
this time
I can’t wait for revolution
I can’t pine for peace of mind
Chorus:
still circling the runway
and now the fuel’s running low
still driving down this highway
with nowhere left to go
I thought about the bouquet
and the futures we throw
I saw the beauty in gray
and the depth of shadow
I was,
desperate
I couldn’t find my place
nothing ever fit
I was,
just waiting
for a chance to be something
for a moment worth saving
I couldn’t bear,
to begin to believe
that all of my life is fighting
there could never be peace
it’s something I found
deep inside
that I alone held the keys
to the cages of my mind
(Chorus)
“It’s better than the alternative,”
it’s what they said while my brother lay dead,
two over-sized bullets from an undersized man.
He was altogether unimpressive, overworked and underfed,
tricked into believing that he had to defend;
when he trained the barrel on my brothers head,
these were the words that he said,
“It’s better than the alternative,”
was what they said when they promised an end,
and some of our best were the first to get sent.
Then the dust started to settle and the truth couldn’t bend,
we had to admit that we’d come for revenge.
We lost our way in the sand and the devil made a friend
I heard him on the news and this was what he said
“It’s better than the alternative.”
Only he never saw my brother there dead;
never saw the man, overworked and underfed.
He never had anything but words to defend.
He’s got ideas not bullets rattling around in his head;
it’s better than the alternative
Why does it feel so empty? Where do I go to get filled? I can’t do very man more days like this. I struggle just to go home without driving off into the sunset. Meeting the questions head-on via a sixty mile an hour handshake with a concrete pylon. Why not? What do I have to lose? This? This life stuff is hardly the gift everyone seems to make it out to be. Everywhere I look are people hanging on by a thread. Their faces permanently hardened through years without a regular smile. Over a couple of beers, maybe, after a couple stories about the old days and the kids from the old neighborhood; that rusty smile sometimes creaks its way in. Everyone says they’re looking for something, everyone says they’re missing something. Some people find it in church, many of which can’t understand why everyone can’t find meaning the same way.
God doesn’t answer my questions. If I am to believe that I was given life and free-will as a gift from God, then I cannot begin to believe that He’d have me squander it on mindless worship. What does my creator need with my time? He’s got an eternity with me in just a few years, right? I always saw life and happiness as more of a personal obligation, that our enlightenment, our salvation, had to be found through self reflection and a deeper understanding of ones self and those around him/her. I respect other people’s path, so why don’t I get the same respect in return?
Some say that my pain is because of this missed track, that I could avoid so much of this if I “let go,” and “let God,” but I’ve yet to see proof of any sort of advantage the religious have over the non-religious. That is to say, they’re just as unhappy, just as confused, lost, and frustrated as the rest of it they just hide it behind this veil of easy answers. I’m not satisfied with just that. If my life gets better simply because I can shrug things off as God’s plan, or tests from God, then I think I’d prefer the sixty mile an hour handshake; respectfully.
The problem is the emptiness, that feeling like there should be something more; not just that the possibility exists for it, but that we’ve been robbed of it somehow. This is normally when I’d attempt to offer some uplifting, well-crafted words on how to find some kind of resolution to this issue, but I’m at a complete loss myself. I haven’t taken a pair of scissors in vain in probably five years, but it keeps tapping on the back of my brain.
In my youth I built castles in my spare time. I explored massive woodlands and piloted flights to the moon. I fought great wars with beasts from other planets and semi-accurate recreations of major U.S. battles. I learned how to fly; but somewhere along the line, I guess that I forgot. I was once a budding rock-star, then an X-Games Cinderella story, then the next great American author, followed, or joined, by the next great psychologist of our age. Now, I’m not really sure who I am.
They called it growing up, and I thought it was something that I was supposed to do; but ever since I started, I’ve been progressively less happy every year. When I first started seeing it this way, I was proud of it, I thought I was winning; I thought I had somehow pulled ahead of the pack. When I found the horrible truth of it, the inevitability of change, and what that really means, I had to wrestle myself off the window ledge. I had to see the things beyond the facts. With mild success I found love to be my life’s greatest achievement, and leveled myself by believing such a thing existed.
After the death of the Easter Bunny, and the shocking demise of Santa Clause, there was really little room left in the world for magic. No need to be concerned, though, there’s more than enough in this busy world to occupy our worried minds. Roads to travel, promotions to chase, vacations and such. It’s with these things still shining in my shaded eyes that I sent myself out on a limb; to chase a dream. I can remember thinking, as I fell, that I should have paid more attention to the view.
I’m tired of climbing back on these horses, sick of putting back together these pieces of me. It’s gotten so that the gift has become a curse, and I’d rather not continue. It can’t make much sense, but I think in the end, it would be ruled self-defense.
