Work don’t mean nothing to a boy like me who’s got plenty other things to do. It’s just been something to keep my hands busy, maybe pay for a little liquor too.
March 25, 2013 § 1 Comment
“If I had money on this earth to spend I would bury it right where I stand ‘cos somethings nothing is a real cool hand, sometimes nothing is a real cool hand” – The Retrospective Soundtrack Players – Real Cool Hand.
The first line. I just had to get past the first line. From there the page was mine. From there I could be anywhere I wanted. Click. And from there, I was away. I caught a glimpse of exactly how it felt to be young. I felt it on the skin over my heart. In the beauty of a personal joke, shared between close friends, in the dim light of a small apartment overlooking a busy road. That innocents that we were so quick to chase away only to miss like a lost lover. To miss, and lust after in a different way to the lust that had driven it into to the see. It felt like home again. Like the last few years had just been a blip, a dream, and that I was just a kid, wild eyed and in love with everything and everyone. Ready to feel. Not this shut down wreck that I have since become. Is there any coming back? I’ve come so far here. Sunk so deep. So very deep. Is redemption that simple? Not easy, by no means easy, but simple. No wait. It’s what everyone is after. Maybe I shouldn’t be so childish about this, so quick-fix. Grow up.
I have been quiet on here for a reason. I have been switched off lately. I have been working hard and stock-piling money. A pile that I use for my trip around the world in a month or two. It’s hard to write when your day is repetitive and full of the same old experiences. I’ve come to realise that. Maybe if you’re better than me, you can, but I’m not. So I have to run around to America. I’m not going to find myself. I’m not going to awaken any sense of wonderlust. I’m going because it gets me excited. I’m going because when I think about it I feel it. I feel. For the first time in ages. I feel the wind in my hair as I whistle down a New Mexico highway. I feel the hangovers in Nebraska. I feel the night starting in New York City. I feel waking up on Californian beach. And my plan is to write it. To take you along. To make you feel every mile, every road, every bar, every beach, every truck stop and every stage. I think it will be the last thing I every do. It takes me back to that scene in Adventureland. The one where the main character is sat on a hill drinking beer with his friend and discussing recent events in his life. It goes like this:
Joel: What’s the point of being a writer or an artist anyway? Herman Melville wrote fuckin’ Moby Dick, he was so poor and forgot by the time he died that in his obituary they called him Henry Melville. You know, like why bother? They’re just going to forget our fuckin’ names anyway. I heard Em went back to New York.
James Brennan: I wish it didn’t end like that, I should’ve – I don’t know.
James Brennan: Your Herman Melville story that – that’s bullshit.
Joel: It’s true, they called him Henry.
James Brennan: No, I mean, he wrote a seven-hundred page allegorical novel about the whaling industry. I think he was a pretty passionate guy, Joel. I hope they call me Henry when I die, too.
Joel: One can only hope
Fuck. “I hope they call me Henry when I die, too.” What a fucking line. That’s writing. That’s a ten word masterpiece. That’s a thousand tattoos just waiting to happen. But that’s how I feel. And should this trip be my last. Should I been so poor and forgot by the time then a few fates would be better fitting. I wouldn’t just hope. I think I would insist upon them calling me Henry when I die, too. What a line. That’s a bit special isn’t it. It makes the hairs stand up on my neck. Maybe I’m glad that this blog isn’t a sensation just yet. Enjoy the hard times. I love you. Thank you for everything. I’m pulling myself together.