Maybe you should write your memoirs – she said.
I thought about it. I had already noticed how past forty things start to get a little, well, you have memories and that’s it. The zing has gone. I already said how I felt it go. It’s cruel. Watching the world spin on without you.
I decided not to reply. I would think about it a while. I still figured I had the music in me. I loved the music, the music loved me, sometimes. I wasn’t ready to be a writer. I could write shit for days, but when I tried to say something honest, from the heart, it always seemed to come out wrong. It never read right. Nah, I wasn’t ready yet to write my memoirs.
I was in a limbo, some kind of formative stage where nothing more was going to happen in life, nothing pleasant at least, but neither was any of what had happened going to make much sense. Not yet. I couldn’t lay claim to wisdom. I was too young. 50 maybe. If I could live that long.
So what to do for the next 10 years?
I didn’t gamble anymore, it bored me. I didn’t fuck any more, it just wasn’t satisfying like it used to be. Whores didn’t do it for me. I wasn’t interested in love, it just hurt or made demands I wasn’t very good at living up to. I didn’t drink anymore, hang on, I drank like a fucking fish so that was a lie, but I had eased back on the drugs. I was pretty much clean. Jesus! No wonder life looked bland. I had chosen LIFE. And it seemed life was pretty boring as a straight guy. How had it come to this? Oh yea, I had decided to step out of the gutter for a moment and get a job. I was alive and almost healthy but as a result, shame of all shames, I was B.O.R.E.D.
I wondered how easy it would be to score some acid in this town. I saw a bus go by, a sign on the side said ‘Follow the Music’, I wondered what it could mean. Hell, I didn’t need acid! I still hadn’t come down since that brown microdot in ’86.
This was true.
Hmmm, my memoirs. I sure had done a lot of stuff, most of it crazy too. I figured I was a good candidate for a memoir. I just had no idea where to begin or how to write it. Or even why. What was the point? What would I be trying to say? Who would be interested? I checked the number of people who had visited my blog: about 400 since it began in June 2007. It wasn’t many, and of them only 3 had dared to leave messages. That wasn’t exactly a fan club. So whom was I kidding here? Who the fuck would read my memoir?
It was a good point and one that troubled me. The more I thought about it, the more I found myself asking what life had been all about. Never a good thing. Especially when you’re still caught in it’s pincers and feeling the squeeze, smelling it’s breathe and seeing the ugly smile of the crustaceous beastie, that surely will devour this sweet soul long before it gets a chance to truly shine. Aint that always the way here.
Fuck the fucking fucker!
I shall call it ‘Memoirs of the Brave but Stupid’, and it shall be a stormy tempest of truth and heroism. Oh aye.