Visit the places you’d like to call home someday. Sit in a thin kitchen as cool and comfortable as a toaster. Watch the construction workers rest but remain in motion.
While you’re at it, be gracious, be kind, and tell the soft, friendly features on the other side of the table that you’re glad they’re doing so well.
Someone could then be fearlessly romantic about being dedicated to telling us what all of those things really mean. They would write big, stupid stories, and at least some of us would envy how they write, and have no noticeable fucks to give about the snide things we would probably say.
And you would remember when that paper wanted to embrace a slow news day, by talking to you about the thing you came up with that a magazine published.
Then you would try to make sense of all the miles you wasted on thinking that at least some parts of what your good luck amounted to were going to hold out forever.
And just for the hell of it, you would stop being so resentful for just a couple of minutes.
Getting back to reality gets you back to suddenly wanting to fly right the fuck out of that kitchen. Away from the places you only ever get to visit.
But you don’t want to go back home either.
It’d be a lot nicer to have the freedom of an empty space too large to notice little ol’ you.
Something with arrogant, desolate spectacle, and the idea that it would take the rest of your life, to find people who could play new characters in the new mistakes you would eventually get around to making.
But you’re probably just going to go back home.
Eventually, there’s going to be another birthday that you’re going to have to deal with.
People everywhere have the deliriously high hopes of expecting you to be around for that.
The drummer trying to give up heartless late nights lives upstairs, and spends twelve hours a day sweating out the compulsion to dream of inspiration.
He wears a big jacket in August, and I don’t think he’s ever going to tell me his name.
Some of the most secretive people in the world actually commit to quiet. They have nothing to hide, and they keep the orange juice and vodka separate at all times.
Some people lord over weird hours by choice. No special reason for keeping six lamps, fourteen grenades, and four Bibles in the bedroom closet. Revolution is not coming soon. Those things will probably be there long after they move out, pass on, or kill those two birds with three similar-looking stones.
The drummer digs rock and roll, but there isn’t a lot of call for that these days.
I’ve heard him play rockabilly, and I’ve heard him try to compel strangers passing by on the streets below to quit their jobs. Quit, start digging shallow graves at wherever their glory days turned to the concrete you can’t trust enough to walk on.
These nursery rhymes suggest better places to be.
I can’t stand to hear him play by himself. It’s better when someone shows up to jam. I prefer guitars that picked up the blues in their old age fifty years ago.
I appreciate anyone who skips a pine box gathering, especially if it’s someone close, for the sake of squeezing in a couple more hours of practice.
Choirgirls and trashy theater geeks have passed through his doorway in the same afternoon.
But I still like it when he brings in someone to write songs, argue about that sacrilegious Alamo gig from 1989, and shatter the light bulb on my ceiling after the first punch is thrown.
It’s crisp, believable medicine. That’s how I see it. I can go a whole hour without listening to my own music, and I don’t take it to heart that my own madness hasn’t been nearly as lucrative.
Hell, I don’t even mind that his love life is as steady as the suicide attempts over the one-story Italian ballet school across the street.
I tried my luck with one his girlfriends once. She thought I was kidding.
It’s cool. Life is not a competition. I don’t mind knowing where I stand.
Bondage Night, the debut novel from Gabriel Ricard, dares to tell the whole sordid truth about love and what comes after happily ever after. This book pulls no punches and gives readers an unflinching view of two lovers trying to make it work against all odds.
Or put another way: Bondage Night is a savage, unreasonable love story for savage, unreasonable times.
You can't look away By Danielle McCoy This review is from: Bondage Night (Kindle Edition) Maybe it's a 16 car pileup, but it plays out masterfully. It's just understandable - maybe even inevitable. Maybe we truly are doomed to go through these self-destructive actions, and they can only truly be seen from outside.