This is the B-Side to my first piece of 7″ fiction. Glad the ending of it came to me today as otherwise it has been a pretty shitty one. At least I now feel like I accomplished something…
I like my musicians the way I like my women: melodic, intelligent, and dead. Not in that way. There’s Lana Turner, Hedy Lamarr, and Lillian Gish. There’s Cobain, Jeff Buckley, Robert Johnson, and Tom Waits. (I know Tom Waits isn’t dead, but he fucking sounds like it, so he’s going on the list).
When they’re not around anymore, it’s easier. They’re fixed and static and uncomplicated. Everything else is relative. I’m a product of that environment, locked in a hall of mirrors where everything is distorted, everything is beyond my emulation. I try, and I fail, and I lose interest. I suffer from some sort of clinical boredom. It incapacitates me.
My first girlfriend wrote me a love letter. There was a paragraph on making passionate love beneath a waterfall. I looked up from the page and out of my window at the tarnished industrial morning. Last night I’d picked her up in the rattling car I borrowed from my brother and we’d had awkward sex in the passenger seat behind the biscuit factory. Afterwards I’d stopped at a garage and bought ten cigarettes with the last of my wages. I couldn’t carry on like this.
‘What are we doing this weekend?’
What we were doing was splitting up. I’m an idiot, I know. I sometimes wonder how much simpler life would be if I didn’t realise this.
To be fair, I think we both thought we were living in some sort of movie. The problem was we’d been cast in very different genres. While she was waiting for an apology so she could forgive some romantic misunderstanding, I was watching helicopters drop swathes of Napalm through the fields of my past. Everything had to go. Including her, including me.
I couldn’t argue with that.
‘Is there somebody else?’
There wasn’t, yet. Later there would be a girl I saw coming out of the art college who looked like Debbie Harry. She wasn’t Debbie Harry. I wasn’t Mickey Rourke in Rumblefish either, no matter how many books I pretended to read or how many instalments I paid on my leather jacket from the catalogue.
‘Who the fuck do you think you are?’
Well, that’s the problem isn’t it?