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A Memory
2004-09-18 - 9:47 a.m. I remember back in 1994 going to see Farm Aid w/ the Indian at the superdome in N0LA. My car had just gotten the engine wet a few days before driving through a flooded road during a pseudo-emergency of my supposed-to-be-good friend Timmy (but really not a friend at all), so we had no ride down to the city. At the time, Flash was working for the local paper, and, along with a reporter, was assigned to go down to cover the event. We wound up catching a ride with them, listening to the reporter's stupid comedy tapes all the way down, getting there hours early for the show so they could fulfill all their interviewing / photo ops. We wound up sitting at some hotel bar near the dome, drinking mimosas. I know I was drinking mimosas; I think the Indian was drinking rum and cokes. For some reason, we both seemed to have a bunch of money at that time. I remember wearing my Counting Crows t-shirt he had bought me at the local record shop. I had on a leather braided bracelet that I wound up losing somewhere over the course of a very long, alcohol-fueled day. I was a lot thinner then and wearing skin tight black jeans. He was wearing black jeans and a harley t-shirt, standard issue for him. We were both smoking pot, but there were no other drugs to fuck up a good time. We caught the whole show. I remember Willie Nelson introducing his nephew's band "Titty Bingo," saying, "That's just a little ol' parlor game we play down here in Texas!" I remember Neil Young coming out wearing a SECURITY yellow t-shirt and playing half his set with his back to the audience, not giving a fuck with his Scorpio self and still having us all on the edges of our seats screaming for more. He did that song "Piece of Crap" and the place went nuts! I remember all of those things like I'm watching it in a movie in my mind, so clear and sharp, and I hit the rewind button over and over again, freezing the moment. There's a lot I don't remember. The ride home, for one. The name of the guy who worked with Flash. But I remember getting dropped off at my trailer and having to get the Indian to boost me in through the window b/c I didn't have keys. I remember making love with him far into the night, how he looked bigger than life riding on top of me, backlit from the hall light, the way he pulled my hair, the black curls against tanned skin, caught up in his hands as he pulled me up to him, close. I knew he was sick then. I had just found out. It wasn't real yet. Not for me, maybe not yet for him. He had a while to get used to the idea, having learned out in AZ that he was really very sick. We had just gotten back together, except that back then I was also still with the Dago, trying to make the wrong choices for the right reasons, or vice versa. He was home again, and sick, and I was still fool enough to think that love would be enoguh to rise above the addictions and the sickness and the pain and make it all ok again , when it never ever really was ok, for either of us, ever before. I probably wasn't sick yet, or if I was, just barely. But i didn't believe in that either. Or if I did, my love for him was so great that I would take that on, too, if I thought that it would bring us, keep us together, as if in some mute, primeval mating dance of incomprehensible pain. I would take it on, and him. We would be like the phoenix, that legendary Scorpionic symbol, rising from the pyres of our own destruction, to become forever one. I believed all that, and I believed nothing. So much was so simple, yet still so hard to see. My own role in my self destruction was played out right in front of my eyes. I was too blind to see. �
still here - 2009-12-18
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