When my eyes opened this morning and my best friend Mr Headache greeted me with a spiral concussive force good morning kiss I knew it was going to be a special day.
My birthday is in a month. Another mile marker on the road of my life. Except for bad shopping days until my birthday jokes it really isn’t anything to me. The ex wife made a point of trying and it was appreciated. The ex made a point of ignoring it.
As much as my mouth and personality make me the usual focal point, I do not like attention. Makes as much sense as a clown going out to the spotlight and asking the crowd to not laugh as he sprays seltzer water into his own face.
So I mention it because I am apprehensive about another fucking year older. I guess it is just a number or whatever. whatever.
word vomit. words moving back and forth through my head in this beat that I can follow. I can see the general direction of but not hear the chorus. the chorus brings it all together. The beat is soft and smooth and sweet. not the normal rapid staccato that tends to drive me forward like the back beat of a Descendents song.
though the lyrics may resonate the same open heart felt sticky mess. that is the magic of the Descendents and All, the music moved you while the lyrics summed it all up and put it into a pretty little package of angst and teenage love.
Listen to I’m the One and if you do not get the lyrics and place he is in then you have never been unrequited. And if that is the case I am happy for you.
The music in my mind has this 70s lilt. timeless and out of time. Little funk, splash of soul and this chugga chugga kind of riff that keeps it all together. The bridge is a bassline that makes love to your inner ear and bounces off of your hippocampus and makes your naughty bits tingle.
But without a hook it is just random notes with no direction.
When I was a kid I had a Rambo ™ survival knife. it was an inappropriate gift from the dude that banged my grandma. He was a great guy that one sentence made into to a pervert. But that sentence was true. So he was a great guy that may or may not have been also a pervert that gave a child a knife.
The knife was awesome. I was a badass. But I just carried it in the woods and did nothing with it.
if the chorus does not come to me this music will be as impotent as that blade.
Not sure if it is the head, the heart or the mind that has me all kinds of unsure about anything. Not sure. Not a clue. nor direction. aimless. trying to figure out how these god damn pieces go together. the puzzle is confounding and the picture it is forming is not the one on the box.
the box shows a happy family having a picnic. But as the pieces snap into place it is not what is showing. the happy trees in the background seem menacing and the branches are skeletal arms. the kids are half formed apparitions and I am bound to the ground, trussed up and served as the picnic feast.
bad brain. no.
feels like a high dive and the target is this little Dixie cup of water suspended in a pool of sewage. my arms are locked together and I am cutting through the air with all the grace of a hippo from Fantasia. I can see the cup but at this speed and arc, I can only guess I overshot the mark. eyes clenched shut and mouth open in a scream of utter despair
is this the feeling of reaching your best by date? knowing if you’re not thrown into a bowl of cereal soon you will curdle? now if someone sees you they need to do a sniff check to see if it is still good?
ugh. sometimes I hate the images I spew. maybe because of the taste of truth that seasons them.
fuck me. I am that dented can on the shelf every one moves out of the way to get the pristine one from behind.
just gonna roll myself off the shelf and find a hiding hole underneath. my own land of misfit toys.
at least until my head decides we can coexist again. and the chorus teaches me the words I need. May be i can find a way to change the expiration date as well. and cure fucking famine if I can have all my dreams come true.
A nice home filled with laughter and children. the smell of dinner cooking and promise of cuddles after. writing and singing and the crackling of flames.
Probably just put a towel over my eyes and let the voices take me on a trip. the pounding in my skull just potholes on a road trip and the suspension is shot.
But you go out and have a fucking adventure. Stand proud and know if anyone says a bad thing about you I will crush them under my heel. You are my constant companion, my dearest friend and sweetest love. you are perfection in a world of copies.
I am better just for knowing you. And sometimes, damn it all to hell, that is enough. Or all we get.
now fuck off outta here. this is a place to visit not to wallow. only I swim here, you just dip your pretty little toes and feel the current. I am turning into a prune.