April 4, 2019:
Christmas.
Led Zeppelin III and IV. Smiler, Sing it Again Rod. Yessongs. Moontan. Court and Spark. Pretzel Logic. Diamond Dogs. Bridge of Sighs. On the Border. Rock and Roll Animal. Caribou. Toys in the Attic. A Night at the Opera. Welcome to My Nightmare. Red Octopus. Bad Company, Straight Shooter.
Helluva great haul.
At night, late, chair with headphones, loud. Frequently all night, since I'm not on good terms with school in the morning and since I typically sleep only a couple of hours anyway.
Today any of these records will take me instantly to that chair with those headphones in that year in the middle-of-the-night darkness with no plans for school the next day.
I'm listening to LZIV right now for the first time in many many many years. There we are: in the corner beneath her large table lamp, smell of ashtray, Radio Shack headphones on a black curly cable. Look up: brown Schwinn Varsity inside the front door, cheap kitchen table we had for decades, windows facing apartments behind. In the 'fridge there's sodas, cake, eggs, cheese, milk, ice cream, chocolate syrup; on the counter there's chips. I have the three-gallon-sized clear plastic bin of homemade chocolate chip cookies between my feet with the green lid off; there's milk and soda on the table beside the ashtray. Maybe I'm reading Dostoevsky: I would have had The Idiot by then. Maybe I'm reading Fire in the Lake. Maybe I'm not reading at all, listening intently to the guitar solo on "Stairway to Heaven". Certainly I'm high, probably on whites and weed. Without question I'm horny and obsessing over my foxy GFs yummy breasts, and how she was always pulling my hands all over them in semi-public. I'm way deep into the first major onset of congenital depression, although I know nothing of that then, only that I'm terribly unhappy and not sure why. I'm in complete revolt, and, while it hasn't yet reached revolution, I'm spending more and more time with the radical students at university. I'm blowing off school as a waste of time and daring anyone and everyone to do something about it, which they don't, not at that Christmas, not until May or June with only a couple of weeks left in my would-be public school career. I may be writing: I'd begun keeping notebooks of vignettes by then. I don't feel I have true friends, and I've compartmentalized my life so that, I think realistically, no-one knows of all of it. I've met the young woman who'd influence my life more than any other individual, but we're not together yet. I'm supposed to go to college next fall but good luck with that. I'm going to read instead, but haven't yet announced that decision. I'm certainly craving french fries.
Today I'll listen to Led Zeppelin and read Antony Beever's book on Stalingrad. I'm high on weed, lying on a couch I actually own, although it's hard for me to process that, with my feet up over the back. I have no plans for work in the morning, or ever again if I can get away with it. I'm thinking of the beautiful breasts of the girlfriend who rarely sees me anymore and of all the other girls I could have instead, if I felt the effort were worth it. I'm currently sleeping four hours a night, am in therapy for the second great onset of congenital depression, am still writing vignettes.
Pose the question, then. Where's my life? Is it there and then, is it here and now? Has it fallen into the cracks between?
French fries sound really good.