Americaphiles

The Story Of My Fucking Life

Eleven

Posted by ilbebe on December 17, 2008

11. Yo yo yo yo yo yo yo y feliz domingos! I just completed chapter nine of the Americaphiles and edited its original place in the blog. If you’ll recall, when I first posted it a few days ago, it was only one sentence long. I was having a hard time figuring out how I wanted to address the topics I covered there, so I just threw in the first line as a placeholder of sorts. Thanks for waiting. Chapter eleven should be up soon. This is the first paragraph of it. We’re in this together, and we’re pulling out of these towns to win.

I’ve been listening to a lot of Bruce Springsteen this summer and absolutely loving it. I can’t stop watching live performances from the seventies where the whole band is clearly having the time of their lives. They’d play for hours at every concert and then presumably party til dawn. Bruce would chase the Big Man around during some instrumental breaks, and then the Big Man would chase him. The bass player’s name was actually, no joke, Garry W. Tallent. Mad Max on drums, Miami Steve on lead guitar, and a dude named Danny on piano. Girls constantly running onto the stage to try and make out with the guys, mainly Bruce. I’m just trying to say it looks like everyone involved wouldn’t have changed a thing. I found myself blasting Born to Run while driving across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco and trying to get up to eighty-eight miles per hour so that I could go back to 1973 and hear Greetings from Asbury Park, New Jersey! on the jukebox at the Turf Club in San Diego, and buy my Dad a beer.

To be continued, gotta give my roommate a ride to work…

Continuity is an elusive beast, and we spend too much time trying to track it. We mostly fire at its shadows. I heard a song earlier this year that gave me reassurance that the most linear journeys we will ever take are on psychic landscapes, if we so wish to. In these realms we can create paths as straight and narrow as we desire, or we can choose to live in multi-dimensional states of constant awe. A dear old friend of mine lives in New Zealand with his wife, who after knowing me personally for less than two days called me on an old trick I used to use: throwing out a non-round number to support a point I was trying to make, when that number was a guess . The premise was that if I said sixteen miles instead of fifteen or twenty, the person I was trying to bullshit would think “Man, you wouldn’t make up a number like that…”

I’m done lying to myself. I ran into a cousin of the same fellow I mentioned in the previous paragraph, also now a good friend of mine, while I was waiting for a drawbridge in Seattle to allow me passage. I had been trying to track her down because she was going to be leaving the country soon and was having a going away party that night. I had, through mutual friends, salvaged a phone number that “may or may not still be somewhere you can reach her.” And then, standing on the north side of that bridge, on the brisk morning of August 28 of this year, she just moseyed up. I didn’t even do a double take. I took this and continue to take this as proof that when you are honest with yourself and others, things will be simply as they appear. The smoke and mirrors of politics disintegrate and reveal the ghosts in the throne room, guarding nothing but their own memories.

Do what you must do, and do it well. When you die, a ghost is born, and that ghost will be obligated to carry on your unfinished business and check in with your loved ones and enemies. May your loved ones bu multitudinous and your enemies few, and may your unfinished business be a game of Go Fish with your favorite niece or nephew.

May you conduct yourself in this life as you will in those yet to come.

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