It’s souled out in heaven.

November 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

 “I feel like a stray from my Cannonball days.” – Cannonball DaysRyan Adams.

Some thing’s come up. I am in a hotel in north Germany and it was mid afternoon when I was awoken by a phone call. I’m currently in the stage of the year in which I write as much as I can before the magazine turns itself into the pay-for-good-publicity advertisement rag that it becomes every Christmas to make the money it needs to sustain itself. I had spent the evening drinking in another empty hotel room and turned in the story via the internet. I was in the blurry eyed sleep stage of the hangover, the ones that don’t hurt, the ones you get when you know that your body has got used to this sort of punishment recently. Anyway, what do you know, I’m spinning around in a tangent again and dancing with distraction, back to my point. I was slapped from my stupor by the unpleasant sharpness of a ringing mobile phone. There’s something horrible about being woken up by a phone call, like somebody has just punched into your warm bubble to deliver bad news. I rolled out of the bed and crawled to the floor where my phone was going off. I risked looking at the screen despite the effect the light had on my eyes, “Private Number.” I put the phone to my ear.

Hello?” I said in that strange voice that always comes out of me when I’m hungover, when I sound like a fucking lumberjack. “Hello Simon” I recognized her voice instantly and the accent and her grace. Maxi’s mother. Her voice had lost some of it’s bounce since the death of her son. She was a conversation artist in my humble opinion. She briefly enquired as to my well being then cutting to the point. Maintaining social convention while also preventing from being patronising. I had last seen her at the funeral, well cremation? Is it still a funeral if its a cremation? She cut to the point. Maxi had no will, he was too busy being insane to bother with that. So she had spent the time since Maxis‘ funeral planning where to scatter the ashes. Then she decided that there was only one way for it to be dealt with. She would take half ashes to the motherland, they would go back with her to Mexico. The other half, she told me, would be given to me and Mossy and we would take them to wherever we thought was the best place. I told her that I love her and that I would see her when I was back in England and put the phone down. Back in my bubble. So now I have a decision on my hands, where do I scatter them? Where we spent our childhood? Where we used to get drunk? In that field near our primary school when I know he had his first kiss or outside Sarah Jamersons’ house where he had his first screw? Or France or Monaco or Rome Or Fucking Nebraska. One thing is for certain. I’m going home and I’m meeting up with Mossy again and we are putting Maxi to rest wherever, for the last time.


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