The kids need shoes.
December 19, 2011 § Leave a comment
“Maria came from Nashville with a suitcase in her hand.”- High Lonesome – Gaslight Anthem.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I need it. Constantly. The light, the sound. The feeling that the whole world is on the end of my fingers. The feeling that I could save the world not by shooting my enemies down, or slow political process, or standing on top of a war-ravaged hill waving a ripped flag underneath a torn sky still wet from the battle, but my sitting in a warm room. At a computer. The internet. Dead are the battles. Dead are the wars. No one fights for real anymore. Not like they used to. Other than the soldiers. No one works. Other than the laborers. Millions sit in front of the internet everyday and fail to take advantage of the tool. Don’t get me wrong, for a second. I understand that this is no trumpet call over a lost battlefield. I understand that. But the fact is, and it’s relevant. At-least-I’m-letting-go. This is mine and I’m making it yours. This isn’t online banking or shopping or applying for a job. This is an attempt to make you smile or think or laugh or cry or something. Anything. You name it. I don’t know. Shit. I would of done it with music if I could. Fuck it I still could.
I don’t feel Christmas this year. The skeleton king has overstayed his welcome in my head. Jack’s where the bell’s should be. Jack’s where half the blood should be. Not for the first time. Christchurch, New Zealand, is my location. Well, not Christchurch as such, South New Brighton. On the coast. That long straight sea view is dragging in on this hang-over. It’s starting to play tricks. The worst ones always do. They wait till that point when you’ve been up a few hours, when you think that you’ve shaken off the worst of it, physically that is, that dull ache in the kidneys subsides and the rattle in the head passes through your hair. That’s when it gets you. The worst. They bite. It starts quiet at first. But slowly and surely it turns the screws. The stronger the spirit the tighter the turns. That solid self-security that defined the period after your teenage years and stuck around ever since, takes a nap for a while. Shields down. Deferences unmanned. That’s when it gets. Dance. The best dance, and swerve, and sort it. Make the good thoughts count and shrug the bad ones away. “That girl doesn’t like you.” – “You’re a fucking nobody.”-“You’re a shitty writer and a shitty person, fuck you.”. The bad apply more vitiman alcohol. I apply as much common sense as I have left from the night before. Get some sleep. You’ll be fine.