Back, To Life

(For friends that I don't see as often as I should)

1

Today is the day I never woke up. I mean, sort of.

Normally it’s just half an hour and 2 cups of coffee after waking, and everything is fine. I’ll go about my day, do whatever bullshit needs to be done next, the typical drudgery. But not now. Floating around in such a heavy way as today, tripping over my lagging thoughts and pseudo cigarettes. Maybe I should take a nap. Maybe later.

I get in the car, and start to drive. Reckless nicotine speeding down these country roads has a way of clearing the cobwebs, and I must say, it helps. Cruising alone through nowhere gives a man some time to think, get things together and really nail it down. Winding sideways in the dark, you see that sunset, and you know what it is? That’s home. Wherever that sunset is taking you, that is where you need to go. Trust me.

That’s where I’m heading, in a manner of speaking. Not my traditional home, I’m heading to my mind’s home. Man, this feeling rushes me sometimes, in a situation just like this, streaming my way “home” in the semi-dark, to a place of vinyl, jazz, beer and marijuana. This feeling of freedom. That’s where I’m heading; somewhere free, to talk about the things we need to talk about, to say the things that need to be said, to play music, to go up in smoke. I’m heading to Jim Doherty’s place, and as the sun finally dips crimson beneath the Earth, I walk past a church, and ring a doorbell.

“Hello?” comes Jim’s voice through the slight static of intercom.

“Alright man, it’s Davis.”

With that I’m buzzed in, and, taking a step into the hallway, I breathe deep.

2

I’m laden with guitar, African drum and a backpack full of beer, making the narrow staircase up to Jim’s flat somewhat difficult to navigate. The guitar head bangs on banisters and I mutter shallow curses beneath my breath. It’ll need retuning now. Finally I open the first floor door and step through, another air freshened corridor before me, a bitter sweet aroma of synthetic roses, white wash, dark tables and a huge mirror on one wall. Silver door handles and a long echo. I don’t know when everything became so sterile. Jim’s waiting at the other end for me, laughing as yet again my guitar bangs, yet again the foul language falls forth. Slowly making my way towards him, I see the familiar darkened living room through the open door, the unmistakable shape of Brad Kessler jamming on the sofa, riffing on Jim’s old Stratocaster.

“Aye up lad!” comes the familiar greeting of Jim. “Get the fuck inside man, we’re just chilling.”

Stepping into the flat is like stepping into another world. Gone is the antiseptic synthesis of modern society, the cleansed air and polished marble, the weeping cities encased in varnish and chrome. We’re in our own place here. An unlit corridor leads to the lounge, stale smoke fills my nose as my eyes adjust, customising to the damp and subdued lighting inside. The beers are immediately stashed in the fridge, the guitar and drum placed in the pile of other instruments, harmonica, ukulele, accordion; I find a place on the floor between wires and bits of paper, quickly jotted notes, scrawled poems, beautiful 2 minute masterpieces, and sit down. A cigarette is swiftly lit. Only now does Brad look up, and with a cool nod of the head accompanied by a muttered,” ‘right?” my night begins.

3

We start as we always do, events since our last gathering recalled in vivid emotion, tales of family living, frustration and the ever present lack of money. Brad’s brothers are in town, he doesn’t get the car any more, all he does is work. Jim’s aunties are visiting soon, the flat needs to be cleaned, freshened; our friend George Icson owes him twenty pounds. Good luck ever seeing that again. Don’t get me wrong, George is a good guy, let’s just say that he can be somewhat, unreliable. He’s lost friends through money before. I’d be surprised if it didn’t happen again.

We talk under the dim glow of a muted television set, occasionally stopping to make some music, when one of us stumbles upon a good riff, beat or rhythm. That’s generally the way we seem to think, things can be put on hold when an idea comes along. After all, conversations can often be resumed, ideas are fleeting.

I hear the church bells ring and look through the singular window towards them, through the soft haze of smoke I notice that night has fallen. Our beer supply has started to run low, only one left each, and the money in our pockets is whispering of bigger things. We didn’t come here with a plan in mind; we came here just to be. Now that we’ve reached this stage, we all know what is about to happen. We will not remember this in the morning.