But I'm hopin' you alone now.
The first one of the day is always the best.
After 7 hours of dreamless abstinence, the vertigo is like reuniting with an old cousin.
Earlier in the week, when I found myself walking the black dog and trying to fight the noonday demon, a memory attacked me.
I'm in a car--I think it's an Audi--with a buddy I met one night. We had mutual friends and a shared experience and we're alternately speeding down and languidly ambling up backstreets in towns adjacent to New Haven, what I guess is called a joyride. And on the shelf below the CD changer is a pack of Newports which we plunder liberally, tossing our spent butts out the window to trip on the asphalt behind us, hoping the wind'll wipe out the glow and prevent a forest fire. As we're chain-smoking these Newports, he tells me of the bid he did for armed robbery. He was a young kid, maybe a few years older than me, and there was a hint of hardness in his voice when he talked about it. He didn't stop laughing or exuding charm. But it was edged with that darkness, and I remembered what had initially united us, that shared...trauma doesn't seem quite the right word. But he's playing me all these obscure punk and hard rock bands and telling me about how one of his uncles had once shared a jail cell with the bass guitarist of some famous band whose name I can't remember when he found out what the guy had done to a little girl once, and I'm suddenly thankful that I told him, when we were all congregated outside the church smoking and bull-shitting, that some of my favorite bands were Staind and Alter Bridge. 'Cause that's when he said, 'what're you doin' tonight?' And that's when I said, 'nothing.' And that's when he said, 'Let's go for a ride.' And that's when I said, 'why not?'
Don't know why today reminded me of him, but a good friend once told me that if you realize you haven't seen someone for a while and you don't know where they are to pray for them. Like an instinct. And so I hope he's all right, wherever he is.
After 7 hours of dreamless abstinence, the vertigo is like reuniting with an old cousin.
Earlier in the week, when I found myself walking the black dog and trying to fight the noonday demon, a memory attacked me.
I'm in a car--I think it's an Audi--with a buddy I met one night. We had mutual friends and a shared experience and we're alternately speeding down and languidly ambling up backstreets in towns adjacent to New Haven, what I guess is called a joyride. And on the shelf below the CD changer is a pack of Newports which we plunder liberally, tossing our spent butts out the window to trip on the asphalt behind us, hoping the wind'll wipe out the glow and prevent a forest fire. As we're chain-smoking these Newports, he tells me of the bid he did for armed robbery. He was a young kid, maybe a few years older than me, and there was a hint of hardness in his voice when he talked about it. He didn't stop laughing or exuding charm. But it was edged with that darkness, and I remembered what had initially united us, that shared...trauma doesn't seem quite the right word. But he's playing me all these obscure punk and hard rock bands and telling me about how one of his uncles had once shared a jail cell with the bass guitarist of some famous band whose name I can't remember when he found out what the guy had done to a little girl once, and I'm suddenly thankful that I told him, when we were all congregated outside the church smoking and bull-shitting, that some of my favorite bands were Staind and Alter Bridge. 'Cause that's when he said, 'what're you doin' tonight?' And that's when I said, 'nothing.' And that's when he said, 'Let's go for a ride.' And that's when I said, 'why not?'
Don't know why today reminded me of him, but a good friend once told me that if you realize you haven't seen someone for a while and you don't know where they are to pray for them. Like an instinct. And so I hope he's all right, wherever he is.