Fade Into You

Every so often, when stars align and oceans collide, I hear a song that enables my transient spirit to travel back in time.   And I don't mean metaphorically.   Last night I was driving along a coastal highway when Hope leaned in and whispered to me, "I want to hold the hand inside you. I want to take a breath that's true. I look to you and I see nothing. I look to you to see the truth." I had somewhere to be, but it didn't really matter.  Her words caressed my body even as they cut into my soul.   I wanted to say something to her, to ask her for directions on this suddenly endless road but I felt hypnotized by the pursuit of her ethereal chant, "You life your life. You go in shadows. You'll come apart and you'll go blind. Some kind of night into your darkness. Colors your eyes with what's not there."  Her dreamy murmurs took me deeper into the melancholy of the unknown and yet, I knew what she was going to say next, because I'd been there before.

Fade into you

Stranger you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew

A wistful cocoon tingled inside my chest.  When it opened up, the Pacific transformed into the Atlantic and I was a child once more.   I'm eight years old and she's the firecracker smile of my parents.  I'm eighteen and she's the starry eyes of Sandy a moment before kissing my lips.  I'm thirty-one, and she is the final verse,  fading...

Fade into you

Stranger you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew

Fade into You
by Mazzy Star
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImKY6TZEyrI

Stream of Thoughts

There's no such thing as a true stream of consciousness.   Only filtered thoughts and feelings, guided by the undefined impetus that seemingly distinguishes right from wrong.  Oh how it would be, to preserve the electrical energy that sparkles in my brain, to hold onto these tingling thoughts like lightning bugs, to know who I am truly am.  

My body is a coffee maker, taking beans of blood to produce a diluted pot of sensations and feelings.  Something surely must be lost. 

I've felt this feeling before. That welling in my eyes that springs down into my chest.  The forgotten wisdom of an amnesiac with life's answers dangled just out of reach.   If I knew who I really was, I wonder if I'd be able to recognize myself.

The lost song.  Ensconced in me somewhere, a melody goes unplayed. The lyrics of life, unsung.   

Tuesday's Gone

Tuesday is without a doubt my least favorite day of the week.  Most people would probably tell you Monday for obvious reasons.  But at least on Monday, there is a shared camaraderie amongst all those weekend warriors still mentally hung over, and it's the one day of the week when you can easily engage in required trite conversation.  As a kid, Sunday was the worst because I suffered from a perpetual state of dread for school on Monday morning that sometimes even bled back into Saturday night.   Wednesday is "Hump Day," a distinguishment in and of itself that is cool.*   Also, when I try and picture the crescendo people are referring to when they talk about "getting over the midweek hump," I envision none other than Joe Camel passing me a cigarette as I slide down the hump on his back.  Thirsty Thursday was definitely the best night of college.  There was never a plan, and yet it was always random, fun, and filled with unexpected happenings, like the time Beth Regan attempted to strangle me with my own tie at the Theta Social.  And Friday, who on earth doesn't like Friday?  With Saturday night of course comes the pinnacle of all weekend activity, but unfortunately once you reach that climactic peak, there's no where to go but downwards...which I'd say happens by Tuesday afternoon. That's the nadir of existence. Right now.

In spite of my dour outlook towards Tuesday, Rock n' Roll has immortalized this day more than any other.  Tuesday's Gone, Ruby Tuesday and Tuesday Afternoon are among the greatest classic rock songs of all time, and on the surface, all long for the second day in the work week.  Perhaps it's because Tuesday is such a terrible day that anything remotely decent coming from it inspires lyrical celebration.   But then again, if we look deeper into these song meanings, aren't they all actually rejoicing in the passing of Tuesday and a dawning of a new day, rather than commemorating its memory?   Lynyrd Skynrd's  "Tuesday's Gone with the wind" might sound like an anthem of nostalgia, but if you open your DVD of Dazed and Confused to the scene where the keg runs dry, you'll hear none other than Tuesday's Gone. The Rolling Stones'  Ruby Tuesday is rumored to be about Keith Richards' spastic groupie girlfriend who ended up leaving him with nothing but a pair of panties on the way to shacking up with Jimi Hendrix. Good riddance. And The Moody Blues' Tuesday Afternoon was originally titled Forever Afternoon, probably to point out that Tuesday can feel like an eternity.

So there you have it, the sword in the scrotum that is Tuesday.  Nonetheless, as Tuesday afternoon slowly turns into Tuesday night, I start to distance myself from this dreaded day.  And in the immortal words of Ronnie Van Zant, I sing, "Won't you please take me far away?"

*Wednesday is the night you are most likely to have sex with a stranger according to star statistician Nate Silver.  I wonder how many dudes use the term "Hump Day" in their hookup approach.   

Memorial Field

Nostalgia is the most powerful presence in my life.  I know not to trust it as it whispers sweet nothings in my ear, but I'm addicted to the impossible dream of life unlived.  In the coming weeks and months, I will be returning to Moorestown, New Jersey.   Memorial Field to be exact. There, amongst baseball diamonds and hidden four-leaf clovers, I'm going to rescue that lost boy I called my best friend.  I'm going to tell that girl who escaped Neverland that I love her.  I'm going to reopen those bedroom windows and write a story that will make things right.  If only I could fly.

The Nouveau Wild West

I’ve heard Los Angeles and the film industry in particular be described as “The Wild West.” And while I haven't seen any of my creative brethren gunned down, hogtied, or horsewhipped in the eight plus years I've spent in this desert, I suppose there is some truth to the metaphor.  Like those manifest destinyers who headed West in search of Gold circa 1850, dreamers like myself flock in droves to Los Angeles to search for fame and fortune. On any given day, there might be a million wandering souls, coming and going, vying to have their names carved out in the lights.  And just like the barren mines that inevitably defeated our musing ancestors, we modern day frontiersman attempt to dig for gold amidst a cratered land of broken promises.  

Some people call this place the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.  It's not surprising I guess.  From an early age, I've been pragmatic enough to understand that dreams don't come true for everyone.  And yet, I never for a second considered that mine wouldn't come to fruition...until recently.  I don't know if it's the harsh terrain or the perpetual thirst for something more, but I'm slowly wearing down.  And I've come to understand that I'm not immune to a forever melancholy address on the boulevard.  Nonetheless, I will begin to write my next script, and faithfully search for those nuggets of greatness that I hope will lead me to the promised land.