I. THE SMITHS: [1982~1987]
“If I had to explain why The Smiths are the most amazing thing in the world it’s because they reach into the part of you where you feel the most weak, vulnerable and unacceptable and glorify it, make it heroic. With me it’s beyond just having a favourite band" -Russell Brand
i had that dream again. just for the moment between waking up to close the window when i heard thunder and the last vestige of sleep wore off.
clouds dissipating on ohio valley spring afternoons. oversleep while a few raindrops slowly paint the backyard as seen through windows a brighter distorted greenish heaven. diamonds glued to the trees and buried in the lawn, streaks of silver growing out of sunburnt early blooms.
in my heart of hearts it was the cyclone though. the muddy grey torrent. tornadoes dancing slow, uncontrollable death waltzes on my countryside. i woke up still shaking. i woke up and i missed you.
there are days i don’t talk / but there’s a dog with her throat cut / shying away from my hand / just because i am a man / and i am ashamed / more than i have ever been.
I’m a hopeless romantic with a dirty mind who has high standards.
i remember the can of beer i took out of the fridge and had just opened when you were parking in the front yard / asked if i was ready to go and i tried to finish it without vomiting and you handing me a coffee while i burped out an affirmation / it was not very much unlike the time we had lunch with our dad and i puked blood in the bathroom while my soup cooled off by my empty seat / i crushed the empty can dropped it in the recycling pulled off the lid of the coffee cup and breathed in the caffeine / anything to wake me up / i’ve been asleep too long / the suv clinks and stutters to a churning pace makes me think of my own interchangeable parts the pieces of me that are misfiring having trouble getting out of first gear and groaning when i push them when i’m always out of gas and guzzling the fumes / its not unlike a burnt tongue the taste in your mouth when you’re drooling over a toilet bowl the smell of a dirty carpet when you’re just now coming to / anything to wake me up / i’ve been asleep too long / it’s biting a busted lip fulfilling a deviants aim forcing pain to at least fill the cave where there usually is nothing / finished the coffee before you had touched yours and i thought of the migraine the nausea the hunger and we sat to eat and outside a cold wind whipped napkins into the street and when i talk its like not even i am hearing me / its so quiet / so i shut up / silence til i’m driving and i can’t see straight the highway is blowing me in and out of dotted lanes and i feel the machinery scape and i look at my hands and the broken fingers and i see the dead skin and i brake hard when i reach the exit /
the song that is going to be about this one specific week of my life is going to be met with no small amount of distress from upstairs. wish it was easy at all to sugarcoat how i feel but its going to come out in fevered gasps and its really going to hurt.
theres a letter postmarked with my return address and yours right there in the center of the envelope and its been sitting in my passenger seat next to the J-RON hat and my t-shirt from work that i am sure i’ll never send never in my entire life. if only because at the end i say ‘with loyal affection and wild love’ and then i just sign calvin.
calvin as if that’s all i am. calvin who is wild with something but nothing but at the same time as if theres something there he cant explain but goddamn does it hurt and for fucks sake its definitely your fault and its not fair to blame you or anyone but otherwise how are we to yell loud enough if its not warm enough to walk outside and curse whatever exists past the stars and waning moon.
|—||Roberto Bolaño, 2666|
spent the first half of my day sockless in my underwear and doc martins in her logan square apartment while the girl i hesitate to call my girlfriend (if only to avoid the pressure of definition) is in rehearsal a bus ride away in lincoln park.
around eight o’clock one night previous i am carrying a five gallon plastic bucket full of steaming molten smokey chicken thigh grease out the back door of work and through a course of parking lot ice towards the grease trap behind the dumpster.
one am eastern time this morning i am driving about thirty minutes north of lafayette doing fifty in a seventy in the gracious tracks of an eighteen wheeled diesel mammoth while dry snow separates like a dense low-lying fog in front of me
i take my steps lightly. it’s been two straight weeks of temperatures fluctuating well enough to melt and freeze and melt and freeze but what’s sick is the gauge never just settles on melt and lets the spring sweep in and save our battered bumpers and unbalanced asses
one thirty am central: back up to seventy in a forty-five on the chicago loop the mist kicked up from my predecessors on the dirty highway collects on my windshield and i switch on the wipers just to smear it into an opaque mess. i panic attack to the nearest exit.
when i do slip on the ice (which, believe me, was always going to happen), the bucket lands perfectly on its base next to me and the liquid cholesterol jumps out like a caged animal after suspiciously eyeing an open gate. from the belt down i am soaked.
two am central she gets in the car from a party on north lincoln with booze on her breath and her first words after a kiss are “god, it smells like barbecue in here.”