No really. How do you sleep? It’s probably so far removed from you unless I bring it to bear. And instead of a blanket, you’ve always thrown poison. When I was younger, handsomer, and dumber we might have ended up in bed together. Now we end up in front of judges talking about things he’s heard a million times and could give two shits about and wants to make it go away and the boy is usually the bad guy. I’ve gotten super broken, but way smarter in the last four years. I’m not a dumb person. In fact, I would say the opposite. Ex-parte may be the worst you can do under new duress. Spend four years at the law library. Watch how courts run. Then it changes. It’s not Law and Order. But everything has patterns. And 90% of outcomes aren’t the same by coincidence. For the record, I never believed in coincidences. The next time, it’s not going to be the same. I just want to know how do you sleep? I did it with alcohol and Drive-By Truckers or The National songs that I had heard that reminded I’m really not the only one. Isn’t that one religions are? To hear your life being said by another. How do you sleep?
I get to judge
There are two kinds of hard rock fans. The first enjoy Brian Johnson’s vocals, as do I. We all loved Back in Black. The second remember when Bon Scott came out with bagpipes and a kilt. That guy gave zero fucks. And Angus Young was thrashing half naked even as a boy dressed like a schoolboy because he was one. Then Kiss blew up and merchandised everything that a logo fits on. And Ozzy was snorting ants in the parking lot on a dare because he said he would do anything, and he certainly did even more than that. I understand that impulse. “You can’t possibly swallow that whole thing.” “Give it to me. Right now. Give it to me.” “I don’t think that’s safe.” “Now you’re the voice of reason? Give it to me.” Oh yeah, Motorhead opened and Lemmy never looked down from the microphone and made punks look like hippies, which in a way they are. I have the word punk tattooed across my neck. I get to judge.
Suedehead
Morrisey seems like a diva and a difficult prick (these seem to be conflicting metaphors, but I assure you they are not), in a way that far outreaches his relatively low level of fame. He’s aristocracy to the fifty-something, post-punk refugees that got bullied by Mötley Crüe fans back in the day, but almost unknown outside of that relatively small block. Don’t get me wrong, I love the Smiths, and like Morrisey’s solo career (though he did hit an early high-water mark with Suedehead), and if I ever met him, I would probably be apologetic for writing these thoughts, but still, I think they’re truer than not. If your famous, it’s entirely your responsibility to control your spin. And in this case, he has done a poor job. The few people that even care have only heard the horror stories of him abandoning shows after a handful of songs because the backstage menu wasn’t vegan, or some other absurd reason.
Instant karma
Be here to love, otherwise everything is speculation. I’m not here to be angry, though given the right circumstance I can usually be counted on to be so. Old behavior is extrapolated into guesses about what will happen. Vague memories have a way of becoming hard truth. Everyone knows what happened, but everyone knows differently, passionately. There are no witnesses that have actually seen anything except what they’ve heard. Credibility is a measure more valuable than a credit score. It means more than the truth.
Nothing happens without an equal and opposite reaction. Lies beget lies. Sorrow makes thing sad. Revenge makes retaliation inevitable. I’m not interested in propagating any of that. I realize my choices might put me in the background for now. I’ve never stayed there before. Why would I?
What’s happening outside is not an ever after. Things will get worse before they get better. But things will change.
It always has a way of coming around.
Fibonacci
F_{n} = F_{n-1} + F_{n-2}
Tell me how connected the numbers three and five are. Closer than you and I ever were. On so many levels, by so many definitions. I dabble in these things. The truth in numbers. The truth in big and small. Quantum theory makes more sense to me than any catechism ever did. Fibonacci sequences seem to predict much more than mere numbers. This is beyond a set of fun puzzles to solve, but rather seem to be the key to something more real than the first ridiculous miracle at Canaa. With the exceptions of 1, 8 and 144, every Fibonacci number has a prime factor that is not a factor of any smaller Fibonacci number. I find this to be far more miraculous than alleged water into wine. That seems like a myth told in the parlance of the times in which it was written.
But the sequence has always been the same; it exists independent of time or even consciousness. The numbers keep getting bigger and never repeat, and you, like the Earth as I blast into space, keep getting smaller and smaller and smaller.
The story of its original proof fascinates me. Squish together two infinitely non-repeating, irrational, transcendental numbers and an imaginary idea in the correct way and they equal -1. Then slowly prove it over decades by calculating the sine and cosine of the theta angle of thousands of triangles on an x/y plane and realize they are getting closer to your result. Then make the leap to infinity and realize the infinitesimal difference between your answer and -1 can be ignored. I can watch this being done in seconds on YouTube. Euler took a little longer. That level of obstinate, compulsive focus is hard to believe but an impulse I definitely understand. So now I’m getting a masters degree because I was transfixed by this formula. I tattooed it on my right forearm so it is never out of sight.
Jolene
So it happened on one of those days when we weren’t really together. Nowadays, that was almost every day. And the calculus of our expected fidelity was never quite calculated anyway. But there was a new glint of something in the reflection of the sun on one of those days. That’s the point, I mean. It only happened because it was one of those days.
I had drinks with a Bumble or Hinge named Jolene, and the first thing I thought to myself, was that she was nothing like the song. Nonetheless, when she spoke, I found myself enjoying listening to her. Maybe the Ray LaMontagne version. That might actually be the perfect allusion, though I always hate when writers I like make allusions to songs I’ve never heard. It is, in fact, how I learned about Nina Simone when I was 15, so there’s that. Always exceptions.
Long way down
The ledge. I remember talking you down from there once or twice. That might be the difference between you and me. You came down.
I’m not quite sure if I enjoy the sweaty-palm excitement of maybe almost falling. More likely the culprit is complacency. A person can get used to almost anything. And after this much time, one might wonder if I didn’t prefer the heights.
It sure does seem a long way down though.
Ways back
Love to me is a filter. Love to me says, “Baby, just shut your mouth.” You and I have come to separate visions of the same truth. You are trying to find peace. I am trying to provoke it.
I was your lifeline out, and you were mine back in, and that was okay. And now it’s not. It’s about as far away from okay as you can stand.
Brown Bags to Stardom 1987
