s u m m e r
dreadnought
When Quintessence closed down I bought several jars of rust colored ink at 50% off, swearing I'd write. I haven't put so much as a word down on paper. Not that I've kept anyway. A couple times I wrote something down, some odd thought, on a napkin or a scrap of yellowed paper, coffee stained and left on the sidewalk by Spoon's place.
I put these thoughts in my back pocket with every intent of mailing them but they end up on the dresser or in the wash where they make the lent that I toss on the counter at the grocery up the street the next time I buy beer late one lonely Monday night.
I don't mean for it to be this way. I never did. I meant for it to be like a few weeks before when I was drunk and on my couch playing songs. I meant for it to be like it was just before it got too hot to breathe right. When the windows were still open and the night air could stink with a day's sweat and that was good.
I usually drink too much before I play the guitar. Then I get nervous, put on a few songs that I dig and it puts me in the mood. With a good buzz, I can almost *be* the sound coming out of the radio. I only just missed it. And it wasn't from lack of practice or shows or fans it was all timing man, timing.
And with that in mind I pick up the guitar to prove it to myself and to whomever is sitting there. In this case it was just the two of us and we'd plenty of gin and cigarettes and I could tell I shouldn't drink too much more or I'd spin, but I didn't quite care enough about spinning concentrating instead on the music I played.
And of course with the music come the tapes and another round of drinks. And then the stories while I fast forward to the "good songs" and remember that I've pictures somewhere but am too buzzed to get them. Through my eyes it's always the same. Everything is sidelined for the music; at least while I'm playing anyway. I have a vivid memory of playing one song over and over on a school rooftop off Lee St. They'd turned the old school into a sort of co-op for artists and my friend Davie had a studio that used to be a second grade classroom. He painted, I played guitar. In the halls at night with no one there the echo was unbelievable. Better than any bathroom or gym or vacant house. A funnel of sound. Bouncing off lockers, hitting the glass door at the end of the hall and coming right back all before I could get out the next note.
One night I was wandering the halls and I found the way to the roof. After that I didn't play in the halls anymore, but rather sat on the stone railing that surrounded the rooftop and swung my legs, head thrown back. I played "The Myth of Trust" and I played it loud. I loved it. And I still do. I always play that song when I play for others and I always play it alone. But that night, on the couch, with the last couple cubes of ice melting around my gin and a smoke in the ashtray I was on that roof. Like I said, through my eyes it's always the same.
I don't know what other folks see. What you saw. And by the time I'm done I've got a thousand yard stare and I dare someone to bring me back. It's too late. I'm back on that roof. Not famous but happy. No fans, but a lot of filigree. Dig?
If it had gone on long enough the four track may have found its way into the picture. Instead I found myself in bed starring at the ceiling. I thought about a walk, another smoke, but we had bigger things on the schedule for the next day.
But mostly, above the rest of it all, I wondered if you were out there thinking about almost touching fame too. If it was possible that as those glasses sweat and moved slowly across the surface of my marble table, you were smoking too, eyes wide. Not quite ready for sleep, but not content to stay awake either.
goodnight 7.21.99