We had friends, sure. The kind of friends that went missing during the daylight hours and came out at night. Friends you’re not sure you’ve known sober. Perhaps this is toxicity… or fun.
We’d all get together at one of our pads. Getting all preparing at one of our dimly lit haunts. The ladies would all be scurrying around getting their ons-on. It was sub-culture at it’s finest. We knew it and cultivated it like Grama’s purple pansies. It reminded me of the ol’ Beatnik poets, or scenes of Almost Famous where they de-flowered William Miller. Those crazies who lived on the edge of poverty, half addicted to some narcotic the other half so close to the insane asylum it was the pure fabric of our well knit society that held them together.
It was interesting watching everybody in their own. Mindlessly wandering about their fantasies as that’d surface and take root in a discussion. We were a group of intellects, not withstanding the freeloading social surfers looking for their own stay too. We all have those, those curiously inclined but far to mind fucked to be able to withstand the rigors of an alternate lifestyle. Society is a tenacious mother who doesn’t let that stranglehold loose too often. Vice grips made of the finest steel a man can mine.
When you find yourself in these kind of situations, it’s easy to trace back memories to circumstances: naked and alluring. It’s a smile and a random comment. A shared drink. What started as a gentle touch on the shoulder and a look so dangerous it ate magic and cast spells. A perspiring beer bottle. Cowboy boots. Tweed jackets with patches on the elbow and thick rimmed glasses that poked out the sides.
It was love and magnetic, like a riveting fiction steeped in sex scenes and pool hall billiards and whiskey shots and a love story.
And I was a sucker.
This isn’t a competition. This isn’t a battle for your love. This is an experience that we’re on together, holding hands, loving, whispering, walking, and waltzing through the evening’s twilight music rustling out through the brown wooden speakers of the 33 spinning wheels.
I corked my own bottle, I dusted off my own boots, I held the door for you. This was me, it was never my attempt to woo you, to brainwash you into me. At least not fully. Of course it’s hard for me to not try my best to cast my spells, in the end. I knew my spells were commingling with yours though. All the difference.
In the evenings we’d go for walks along the sombre street sidewalks, arm in arm with unconsciously matched steps; a slow pace. Slow dance in the living room with dirty indy music holding us close.
The floors were old parquet flooring; only a few loose segments to mind. We’d navigate the few squeaky spots with delicate care and embrace.
It’s funny how intimate relationships are always stifled in public. Soft becomes hard. Release become manicured. But the saunter always exists, the presence is constant. Julie had a swagger cultivated entirely. So did the rest of the gang, the lousy group of modern beatniks, loveless bastards, free floating radicals, my family of grandeurs I’d so come to call by love.
[note: to read full epic follow dragging left wing]