Five Years

“Five Years” - David Bowie (The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust - 1972)

I never thought I’d meet so many people. All this time. All this long time. Fat-skinny people. Tall-short people. Pretty-ugly people. They were nobody. They were somebody. All with a story. All compelling. Boring. Unattainable. Right in front of my face. All this when I thought that five years was really a lifetime.

Of course, now I know the truth. Everything’s in hindsight. Everything is after. And it’s hard to go back and put myself in that situation again. To even think about it seems…difficult. The only thing I can think to muster is…forever. I want to get back there. So I can think about why I did it. And why it ended. But I can’t stay long.

For a while my brain hurt a lot. Yes, I was hurt that it was over, but why? Why? Not why was it over, but why did it ever begin? I didn’t know it was five years. I was ready for the long haul. Eternity. I walk around now and see them everywhere. So many mothers sighing. I know they’re not lying. I think inside, they must be dying. Because that’s how I felt. Under the numb. Under my thumb.

Now little people are involved. Tiny people. And that’s wonderful. But to what end? Another five years? And another? We become uninvolved with people to raise another uninvolved. Uninvolved over and over again. I want to walk again. I want you to walk. That’s really all we’ve got. Waiting for another five years. Or not.

I choose to live now. To open myself up to the wisdom of other people. To the happiness of companions. Plural. It’s either that or spend another five years watching television and waiting for the bomb to drop. People are the wonders of God. I never thought I would need so many people. But I do. I am tired of feeling like an actor in a role.

I want to walk into an ice cream shop and find you drinking milkshakes. To sit and talk for a while. To do it again tomorrow and find you again. And that is where it will begin. Not another five years, but a lifetime of friends.

http://www.5years.com/start.htm

So Lonely

“So Lonely” - The Police (Live From the Orpheum - Atlanta - 1979)

There’s a hole in my life now. But I wonder if it’s always been there.

Ever since she said she’d found a better way. That excruciatingly long day. Packing boxes and making memories of my memories. Flipping all about like nothing was really happening. Nothing that mattered. She took her turntable with her. Left me with all this vinyl. Stacks of wax. Now she has no subject matter and I have no means. Has the music gone out of both our lives? It would seem only fair.

I’ve been sitting around the house doing nothing. For a while now. All dressed up with nowhere to go. Starring at the faces on these record albums. Pat Benatar - Crimes of Passion. What did she do? Jackson Browne - Late for the Sky. Where is he going? Jeff Buckley - Grace. How could he live with himself? Wondering how these rock stars deal with their depression. Screaming guitars and bittersweet lyrics always made me feel so much better. The pounding drums restore my dead pulse.

Look at these three guys. Outlandous D’mour? Is that supposed to mean something to me? Regatta De Blanc? Jeez, I’m American here. I wish I could hear the voices again. The ones that rang so true. The ones that came out of the center of all these black discs. I wish I could here her voice again. She would always talk about “true rock and roll” or “rock and roll truth” or “rock and roll and truth” or something like that. It was important to her. She was important to me. The bed’s too big without her. I guess I could drag all these records into the sheets with me. It’s just not the same. I feel so lonely.

Remember Risky Business? You know the scene I’m talking about. I could strip down to my underwear. I’ve got Live Bullet right here. I’m sure that would comfort me. If I just had something to play the damn record on. Maybe I could get it all back. Maybe I could get her back.

That ‘Old Time Rock and Roll’ will just get older. And then it will die. Like me. I’ll just sit here in my underwear anyway. Waiting. There’s no need to be formal anymore. There’s no need to be careful before an audience of none. I can live my rock and roll lifestyle of inactivity. No one should complain.

Since the music has gone, the only thing I have to console myself is knowing that in this theatre that I call my soul, I always have the starring role. That’s got to count for something.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/B000002G2E/102-4404166-4268119?v=glance

The Shadowlands

"The Shadowlands" - Ryan Adams (Love Is Hell, Part 1 - 2003)

I'm drunk again.

But that's how he writes best. And that's how I listen best.
Late night at work and the pile getting higher with every phone call. I'm tired. Too tired. Rewriting every sentence due to the Exxon Corona's. They don't sell single bottles anymore. Or even a regular can. Everything that's sold is in a quantity to make you look like a alcoholic while drinking it. Makes the bars look petty. The real warmth isn't in the ancient mahogany woods and beer stained floors. It's in the fluorescent lighting and freshly scented bathrooms. But I am so warm right now and in my 70's wood paneled cave. And Ryan Adams takes my 40 oz. and turns it into the Jack Quinn's Pub. Where are my cigarello's again? I've misplaced them. Perhaps they're not even here now. So warm. And that sweet outerlude. That intoxicating guitar ending the lyrics. Bottled water and nowhere to go now. I'm here. He's here. And no glass and paper can remove her rosewater scent. He begins to cry. And so do I. Because sadness is so sad. And I caught the scent a second ago.

http://www.ryan-adams.com/

See You In The Next One

"See You In The Next One (Have A Good Time)" - The Verve (Storm In Heaven 1993)

And that's what relationships become that don't last. It's really that hard.

"How hard is it for me to wait for you, my love"

It's more like a lament. So much effort and nothing to show for it any more. We are aware as humans that we have an affinity for gathering wealth. Hording it. The accumulation of material possessions that you can't take with you. And those that are aware of this realize the value of relationships. And some of us horde those. Until one is expended. Lost. Literally forever. And this song is so sad. To lose and that dark feeling of knowing it will never be back.

This isn't a plane trip with a return kiss at the end.
A vacation that brings the hug that lasts a second too long.
The trip to the grocery store that ends with a spoon between two.

This is life that leaves.
This is the girl that took a special piece of your soul and went away.
This is the friend that went in the hospital with a piece of your spark and left with his gone out.
This is the friend that worked through your trying times and somehow worked out of existence.

This is the sorrow.
This is the finality.
This is being on your own.
On your own.

And finding again.

www.theverve.co.uk

Wont Be Home

“Wont Be Home” - Old 97’s (Drag It Up - 2004)

He couldn’t believe his luck. The rain. The car. The radio. It all set the tone for what was turning out to be an unexpected evening.

She smelled so incredible. It made him believe she had definitely thought about tonight. Just a few days ago she wouldn’t even look at him. That rattletrap. That piece of shit Pinto station wagon that carried him around everywhere. He could hardly blame her. But this. This vintage 1964 red Mustang. This heart and soul of his mother. This car she normally wouldn’t let out of her sight. This car, whose back seat was the manger of his birth. He decided it was probably best not to tell this to Hope. Especially with The Old 97’s playing on the radio. Especially with her staring so intently into his eyes. Especially since she just asked if they could move into the back seat. He didn’t want to gross her out.

Pulled safely off the road, he opened up the door for them to climb out, but she was already in the back. Climbed right over. He wondered if she was for real. And started to doubt her sincerity a tiny bit. But he pushed that thought away. It was really coming down outside. He pulled the door back shut. His arm soaked, and climbed right over himself. He just wanted to touch her before all this went away. She broke his fall with the soft of her body. Face to face. The rain pounding. The radio blaring. The car…

“Can I tell you that I just love your car.”
“Oh yeah? You like it, huh?”
“Are you kidding? How come you never drove it before yesterday?”
“Well my mom…Well, I get my mom to watch it for me. I just drive that piece of shit to school so people wont bother me. This is my real car. This is the real me.”
“I like the real me.”

That look of unbelief came over his face again. This whole thing confounded him. He just couldn’t believe that a car made that much difference. You could have never convinced him until right at this moment. This cold night in his momma’s car with the hottest girl in school. But his mind was tired of trying to figure it all out. His ears were tired of listening to his own voice. He was afraid he might say something he would hate.

He started to kiss her. They were slipping between the leather cracks in the seat. Getting smaller in the rearview mirror. A million miles away. He hadn’t been paying attention to the emergency break he released in his eagerness. He hadn’t been paying attention to the steep incline on the passenger side of the car. He hadn’t been paying attention to the lake at the bottom of that incline.

They never even felt the slide. The impact of the water awoke them from his dream. Moments before the car filled up, he broke the silence. He just couldn’t help himself anymore. And he couldn’t help her.
“I was born in the backseat of this Mustang on a cold night in a hard rain.” She stared at him with that same disbelief. Or was it disgust. It was hard to tell once the crying had started. Maybe he had pushed it too far. Maybe the irony of all this was lost on her.

The water was up to their neck now. It was then that the thought finally registered, as he stared at her pretty, distorted face for the last time. I wont be home no more.

http://www.old97s.com/

Fear

“Fear” - Sarah McLachlan (Fumbling Towards Ecstasy - 1994)

There was nothing left to lose. It was gone already. Despite the differences, we were really both starting over again. An orphan and a newborn. Left to their own devices.

It was fine at first. So many things to try. So many virgin experiences. Neither of us having anything to give but ourselves. Maybe that’s when the trouble started. It was bound to happen. Could have been that pact of eternal friendship - you know with the camping knife and the cutting of fingers and everything. Could have been that day we both leaned over the balcony and screamed “bring it on” to a whole new world of wonder.
We weren’t ready. We needed more time. More healing for the buried wounds. We definitely weren’t prepared for what our challenge would bring.

It was a two box night. Two boxes of Raisin Nut Crunch. We went through that stuff like water. Two big bowls. Two big spoons. Standing up in the kitchen. Our meals were liberating. They always were. The newborn put on a pot of hazelnut coffee. Our nights were our days. Then we got into some big argument about the responsibility of artists. The newborn felt one should be willing to die for their work. I just couldn’t see it. I might have said “fuck you”. It was always an expression of love. Then I left. There were things I needed to do. There always were. Barnes and Noble down the street. Had to check out their table of new over-sized fiction. We usually did this together, but I could tell he really didn’t want me around right now. We’d talk later. Things would be fine. They always were.

I came back. Couldn’t have been more than 2 hours later. Things felt different somehow. Even before I put my key in the door, I could smell her. A girl. The temptation was thick in the air. Her and the newborn were in the chair. Well, the newborn was. She was sitting at his feet. Separated by an inch. Watching some bad movie. Donnie Brasco I think. Some blonde lawyer I think. Some intoxicating moments I think. And the newborn.
There was a quick introduction and I went to my room. An hour later she was gone. But it was like a tornado had come through the apartment. Things were unsettled. Left undone by this moment of…

“What was that? Static electricity or something? I could hardly breath.”

The newborn just stared at me for a second. “I don’t really know. But I want it to happen again.”

For the first time since the beginning, I was afraid.

Maybe we got our wish. Maybe we had to grow-up. Whatever it was, it was never as easy after that. Our mutual depressions became mutual obsessions. And our weeks began to lose days. A spirit had come in and changed our lives forever. But things would be fine. They always were.

Things are fine today. But it’s not like before. When I think back on the past. I remember that night we stood on the balcony. Leaning over our world. At the height of everything. Sometimes I believe there is nothing I would have loved better than to fall. The newborn and the orphan. Taking flight. Taking it all on. Even girls.

http://www.mp3.com/albums/150171/summary.html

Waitress

“Waitress” - Live (Throwing Copper - 1994)

He thought it had something to do with feeding the cats. Or locking the screen door. Or whether all men really were the same pathetic creatures in one particular area of the kingdom of human psyche. It doesn’t really matter. They had gone so far he didn’t even know where they had started. The same trail they always took. She was still talking. At least her mouth was still moving. For what that’s worth.

Why did they always end up in the same place. The same inane discourse. Never about the big things. Not money. Not sex. Not deep dark hidden secrets. Instead there were battles about how long beef stays in the bowels and whether a sweater was actually green. Or, the worse, some explosive fallout from a carefully articulated rhetorical question. HOW CAN THERE BE A RIGHT OR WRONG ANSWER TO A RHETORICAL QUESTION?

The worse thing about these epic, frustrating word-plays volleyed endlessly with giant semantic paddles was that everyone was invited. At least that’s what it seemed like. Of course, that’s okay with her. She thinks she’s amazingly clever always hiding behind that “I’m right and you’re just a fucking idiot” suit of invisibility. Meanwhile, he wants to crawl under the seat. Under the gum-crusted, greasy, orange vinyl seat. It was orange. He was right about that. Why couldn’t she just lower her voice? How hard was that? She had to know. She had to. The pain this was for him.

Often these tirades were in front of their friends. That was until they stopped coming around. The dinner parties seemed to lose their luster along the way. Now it was diners. Really bad diners. I guess it didn’t matter. He wasn’t there for the food. It was the insults that kept him coming back.

Hey, what’s this…He just noticed his waitress for the first time since they sat down. She was sort of gruff. Bad attitude. But she had this Bohemian look. Real hippie chick. Pouty lips. Really red. This tiny plaid pleated skirt. Wore this funky barrette in her hair. Really dirty hair. But she was cute. Really cute. For a minute, after she dropped their milkshakes, the pain started to go away. Peace. Bliss with vanilla ice-cream at the back of his throat and hope in his heart for the first time.

“Are you even listening to me?”

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to repeat it back to her. He knew that was the best thing to do when this question raised it’s ugly head. But he just…He wasn’t listening. And what could he say? Really? What were his options. He said he was sorry.

“Let’s get out of this dump. Pay. We are not finished.”

“We’re not?” It was a rhetorical question, he realized. They were, in fact, finished. And that’s why he didn’t say it out loud. He put the money down and realized it was barely enough to cover the tab. This was not how he wanted to make an exit. He spoke up for only the second time in the past hour.

“Come on baby. Leave some change behind.”
“Why? She was a bitch.”
“She was a bitch, but I don’t care. She brought the food out on time.”
“She wasn’t good enough.”
“Everybody’s good enough for some change.”

As he realized just how right he really was, she threw down some bus fare and walked out. Everybody is good enough for some change. He checked his other pocket and found a five. He set it down in the middle of their mess. He took one of the quarters she had left and dropped it into the table jukebox. Let it ride. The strains of a long lost song was just starting to ring out as he caught her eye and gave her a mischievous smile. The hippie check. Even though his dinner of cheeseburgers and fries was already beginning to burn in his stomach, he knew he’d be back. Maybe sooner than he thought.

Then he went to face the real music for the last time. After all, everybody’s good enough for some change.

http://www.friendsoflive.com/