because it's gotten that overwhelming. all the shit I need to do but am not doing. i would make it here, but it would scare me, some of what is in my to-do list, to share it with you, which makes me feel like I'm not telling you everything. And so I'm not. And then thinking what I do share, knowing that there's much more below here, that should scare you too. Does me.
Jonathon's pitching curves over there and you have to be quick to catch on. He waits for no man. He pointed to this a couple days ago on Gonzo Engaged and it made my heart stop because SHAKE was the one that got me. And you know you're speaking at the same time, about the same thing, the same way, with the same kind when you find that kind and then find out that the same thing got that someone else. Really.
It's Jonathon's fault. Everything is. What's not his is Marek's.
That's why I have to pull out some of SHAKE here. Because as she says, 24, maybe more of us, are here and most of us all got SHAKED at the same time.
So SHAKE.
And now this, I would think. Not the endless tapestry of complexity unbound, but just stupid ordinary confusion. Embarrassing. Not knowing how to hold one's hands. Like posing for an awkward photograph when you're already in a bad mood. Leave me alone. Shall I hold my face like this? Or this? And nothing felt right, and nothing felt true. No surer hell.
So I drank.
Name your poison.
You're beginning to suspect this is all a bit too random. Or long ago suspected it and now you're not taking no wooden nickels from nobody. You're ready for anything, you've seen it all. You love your kids, you hate your life. No wait. You love your life, you hate your kids. You've even considered Scientology. Or joining the Psychic Friends network.
In short, in fact, in flagrante delicto: you're at the end of your fucking rope. Admit it.
Repent. Forgiveness is yours.
Everyone looks up at the stars and wonders. Everyone remembers falling in love. It's corny and you don't like to admit it, but there it is. It's true for your most hardened killers. It's true for your most chichi ennui-ridden webhead hipster neophiliacs.
...yeah? And then what? Then you give yourself absolution. You forgive yourself for being human, for being confused, for not knowing the right answer. You weep for your life. For having been so shut off and hard hearted. You get down on your hands and knees and kiss the fucking earth for having you one more day is what you do.
And when in doubt, rock like a motherfucker.
This is where I figured out about rock and roll, or whatever you call it that does that. And a whole lot else, I guess, though it's only just now sinking in, now that that world is dead as a burned out supernova ten million light years somewhere back behind yesterday. And the thing would sorta build up as the night wore on, the band getting hotter, the lovers getting hotter, the hall getting a whole lot hotter, until you were dancing your ass off, sweating like a motherfucker, stoned, exhausted and you didn't care anymore, and then the band would know they had you and they'd kick it over the edge, driving the beat like a blinded animal, the lead guitar suddenly sliding up from tasty to insistent to full-throttle roadhouse and just when you thought that was the top, the horns would come in, a whole line of them wailing blasting blowing the fucking roof off and they'd cook like that for so long you could not believe it, as it defied the very laws of God and man, shredded the fabric of space and time, and you'd find yourself shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes!" like a goddam madman just like everybody else, and that wall of sound, of crazy joyous noise, was all the reason you needed, all the reason you'd ever likely get, and everybody knew it. Which was the whole point. The heart and soul of rock and roll. And all the rest of it. If you didn't get it then, you never would.
That, my dear blog friends and enemas, is what it means to get it. It's not about telling, it's about letting the music/drug/words/poetry/net/love/sex/cat/kids/name-your-passion/ kick the guts out of our middle and onto the walls and ceilings, and its messy and joyous. It's nasty and georgeous. And that's how it tells its own tale.
When I found out, a couple days ago, that Jonathon got it from SHAKE like I got it from SHAKE then I knew we got the same thing the same way to the same beat, the same sock in the gut, the same way.
And that's a beautiful thing.
Curvin' ya J-man.
