You might lose everything in this life.
You might find yourself homeless crashing on your buddies couch while all of your shit, all of your worldly belongings, are locked away in a 20 dollar-a-month, climate controlled storage unit. You may find yourself wearing the same clothes you found yourself wearing the previous week when you realized you were wearing the same clothes you wore the previous week. You may find yourself at the local 7-eleven sealed in a bathroom washing your knickers in the sink, a trusty bottle of Palmolive by your side, with your dick hanging out. You may find yourself stealing money out of your dying grandmother's purse. You may find yourself donating plasma, blood, sperm, or whatever other bodily fluids so you may later buy your fake-ass friends a round of shots at the bar and look like a big shot. You may find yourself looking in the mirror and not recognizing the face who stares back. You may find yourself turning tricks, sucking off a 50 year old investment banker who looks like Richard Gere in a dingy back room at a crappy, fag techno club hoping... no, praying... someone you know doesn't spot you. You may find yourself shooting heroin between your fingers and toes so you may hide unsightly track marks from colleagues, friends, family, and yourself. You may find yourself sitting in the back of a limo sipping champagne and snorting lines of coke with complete fucking strangers, middle aged swingers, who's only intent is to fuck your girlfriend. You may find yourself sitting in front of your laptop at 3:45 in the morning with your head swiming in coffee and mephamphetamine, grasping at ideas, desperate to arrive at something profound and beautiful... and utterly failing. You may find you've lost the touch, the idea machine has shut down due to irreparable damage. You may find yourself walking just a little slower across that bridge. You may find yourself shivering on a park bench staring at a photograph of your little boy, focusing on his happy smile and starry, optimistic eyes. However, no matter how hard life decides to shit on you. No matter how many punches to the face and kicks to the balls you take. No matter how much dirt and dog shit you're forced to pick up with your face. No matter how hard you hit the bottle, the floor, or the bottom, wherever that may be; wherever your personal version of dizzying hell might lead you ... there is always the music.
There is always the beat.
26 comments:
Fuckin' right, Hermes! Music IS the best medicine! A rippin guitar, a steady heavy beat...I'll take that any day!
Turn it up to 11! Hello Cleveland!
Rock ON!
You posts disturb me. I must read more. Thanks.
you okay dear?
you write so well i often can't find the line between fiction and reality in your posts...
OH WOW! Absolutely excellent! The long version of shit happens!
You might find yourself reading words that so profoundly penetrate your soul that you wish you could reach out and touch the mind that generated them and offer some crumb of comfort from your own broken heart.
Indeed, very wise words! I've commented on your comment back home.
Very cool!! cool post.
RockDog. The beat gets me through my workout, my work day, and my drive. I need it like air sometimes.
Munkey. I certainly hope you keep reading.
Jasmine. Of course I am. It's fiction. A little more raw than my usual fair but fiction nonetheless... maybe.
Autumn Storm. Shit happens and then you die. Stay tuned for part 2 where I die.
Rae-Ann. Wow thank you. That is very kind and sweet of you to say. If you really want to make me happy, turn me into a velvet Elvis like you promised. ;)
Humanity Critic. Thanks bro.
Jay. We all have soundtracks to our lives. It's like a fucking episode of the "Real World" only in MY life, the music is much better and the cast aren't a bunch of dumbshits.
Wow. This is awesome. The reality in this post is so real and vivid. I've felt some of these emotions and have found myself in similar situations. Unfortunately, I've hit "bottom" numerous times. You live you learn and you just pick yourself back up and deal. Life is always a constant lesson. A constant battle with fate and decisions. You're right though - there is always the beat. The beat of life. Time and energy. The cycle. It is inbetween those beats that you must make your own decisions on how you want to live your life.
Or in other words: the rhythm is gonna getcha.
I knew it! I always thought Richard Geer type hansome men must have something shady going on--- i don't trust pretty men.
God! Now Trite's got Miami Sound Machine stuck in my head and for some completely asinine, stupid reason, YOU have "Rhythm Nation" stuck in my head.
I'm one lyric away from putting on leg warmers and skipping down the street in a sad tribute to the '80s.
But it has nothing to do with your post. Just the weird little fucking world within my temples, that's all.
* * *
That said, music at times was the only thing that got me through all I've been through. I remember nights sitting fetally in the corner with headphones on as I droned away to a world within sound, lost to everything around me, as if that beat was the only thing tethering me to the pulse of the planet.
And ultimately, the beat evokes the sound of the heart pumping... sometimes the only thing that reminds us we're still here.
(shrug)
Thank god for the guise of fiction, hmm?
Oh! BEHAVE.
Colonialave. Wanna play a game? All of the things in this post have happened to me at one time or another, or are currently happening to me, save 2. Try to guess which two.
Trite. Or spontaneous combustion. Whichever comes first.
Tattooed Brain. They say cotton is the fabric of our lives... well music is the soundtrack to our troubled, shitty, insignificant lives.
Yes, I truly do get it.
Steve. Still breathing mate. I'm still breathing.
Tacit. Has the fat lady had her solo yet?
Ale. Or the moral of this story could be men who look like Richard Gere are lascivious assholes?
Steff. " And ultimately, the beat evokes the sound of the heart pumping... sometimes the only thing that reminds us we're still here."
And the pain. The sweet pain. Someties the music can take us back to it.
Alright, you're on. Check it:
You've never sucked a 50 year old Richard Gere wannabe investment banker off in a crappy, fag techno club. (You don't seem like the kind of guy that turns tricks)
And. . . .
Though I believe you have found yourself on a park bench shivering many times while staring at a photograph . . . I'm pretty sure the photograph you were staring at is not your little boy.
Those are my two guesses. How'd I fare?
Jesus Hermes!
That was powerful.
H,
Pain for me has often been simply numbness to everything around me, so no, that hasn't always been an active factor for me.
Music doesn't seem like enough of a reason to console yourself if all of that happens. It seems to me that music just plays on our mood, it enhances whatever shred of true feeling we have burried within us.
Maybe despite everrything that could happen to us in life there is a little bit of untouchable love locked deep inside. If thats true, then maybe music is the key that can open it.
What's with the comment spam? I'm thinking about activating that word confirmation they just added. Anyways, music. If you are a musician, music is what you live for. If you're a writer, writing is... etc, etc.
That place where you wake up outside not wearing enough clothing cause you got too drunk last night drowning sorrows is a tough place to be. been there. I'm still there, sometimes.
Other than that, there is a great sense of forboding in this one, but all the 'mays' and 'mights' dull that pain and misery away to a point where it might not even matter. (see?)
Not trying to offend...
This is almost prose poetry.
Colonialave. Right-O girl. Very good. You win the prize. I haven't decided what it is yet.
Snakehead. Thanks. I'm glad it made you think.
Martini Bryce. Ah, the elusive one speaks! That's why I have very few possessions. So when I do lose everything it's just the shirt off my back.
Vexation. Well it COULD be worse. Your penis could get cut off and thrown in a field.
Steff. Lithium and beer. Makes me numb. Or heroin.
Kirsi-Jane. Perhaps. A musical pandora box... with a twisted version of "Everyone hurts" all tinkly and sweet.
Eric. THe comment spam is really starting to fucking piss me off. Anonymous commenting is now OFF.
Thanks for the comment by the way. I do take that as a compliment. Sometimes we need to be reminded of those times we woke up in a pile of our own piss and vomit. It adds clarity to our present lives.
I've actually just enabled anonymity on TLD, but I also enabled the word-verification option. I'm going to see if that prevents spam or not.
On the Cunt, I do need to keep anonymity an option for obvious reasons. Ha.
Yes, perhaps the numbness was a result of being high for much of the last decade. Nonetheless -- never begrudged THAT. This being off dope thing is surprisingly different.
The Cunt.
What goes up...must go down...or is it the other way around?
I win a prize? I'm both interested and excited to see what you finally come up with. I'm sure you know what I like.
Ah...you've been reading my blog. Except I don't own any knickers.
When ever life gets really stupid an ya wanna leave that shit covered hellhole where ever you reside...come on down to J-Town, liqour and girls are cheap. Furnished digs runs ya $120 American. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is kicks like living on the edge every fucking day of your life. Who the fuck wanna be like the drearies and the norms of blackhole suburbia with a Starbucks on every corner and a crappy job so's you can afford a PSP2 so's your friends will never know the cold COLD darkness and contempt you're festering inside.
You are very hip and with it, Hermes...firstly I thought you was some scrawny poser that graduated liturature from the Little Lord Flauntroyd School for Hemophebic Children...but I think you are all right. A real Wise Guy in the truest sense.
I would be honored to buy you a drink some day.
G.D. And then you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around...
Colonialave. Careful girl. I have an endless imagination.
Desolation. You're in luck bub I'm a cheap date. Piss tasting, yellow tequila will do nicely.
I'll keep that offer in mind too bro. One of these days I just might tie up all of my possessions in a hankey, on the end of a stick, and come on down to ol' Mexico.
Hermes - Careful? Me? You should know better ;)
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