A Phone Call

by M. Blake

Thinking about a friend whom he recently had a conversation with, and how they talked about mutual friends from the past, and about a certain period of time in the past (though at the time it seemed that there was nothing certain about it); both of them wondering what had become of those friends and acquaintances and how life had treated them in the last few years. There were so many people in their lives then, people around every day. It was rare to have a day to yourself. Not like the days now, when both of them have plenty—one might almost say too much—of time alone. It is a quieter period for sure, and one that both insist they needed. A change was required, in surroundings, in people, in daily habits and routines. A whole makeover.

And yet, years later, this short talk they had brought back so much in a few minutes. Neither of them had completely left that period behind; they were too sensitive and impressionable for that. A certain few, unpredictable years of intoxication had been imprinted for good. The talk always got around to that time, inevitably.

It was the stuff of books; Simmer didn't doubt that. No shortage of characters. Good times. Sad times. Crazy times. Unpredictable was the word that always came to mind. And because of that, in all of its variety, unforgettable.

Simmer would like to get something about that time down in writing, a novel based on that period, especially now that some time had gone by. He had tried to write about it as he lived it; in fact, he had done quite a bit of writing at the time. Yet most of it was written when he was drunk, when he seemed to lose the ability to discern the true importance of different incidents and episodes, or the lack of it. As a writer, he swept as much as possible along from his day-to-day, bottle-to-bottle existence, the trivial along with the special or unique. His writing was often as unclear as many of his days, private and drunken scribbling that really only made sense to him. Still, in doing it, he kept himself going in some way. Perhaps it was in thinking that some day it would all come together in a book. His friends at the time seemed to find the idea amusing too. What the hell, it wasn't every day you could participate, as a character, in a book in progress. So it was three sheets to the wind and let it roll for everybody.

Unlike this day, years later, with both Simmer and his friend sober and experienced in how drink could punish a man. It could be such an evil poison, his friend had said, and there had been plenty of times over the years when Simmer would have called it that himself. By now, he no longer looked at drink as an indispensable aid in attaining an inspired state.

They talked about one friend who had very much been in the thick of things in the party days, a "character" in the book for sure, who had died a couple years earlier. Basically, he had drunk himself into a coma. And this, of course, provided a sad coda to the story of that time. It would have to be included, along with the other, non-physical deaths: the end of feelings, relationships, dreams, innocence (what little there was) and, for some, the last vestiges of youth. A time of uninhibited, unplanned life followed by the inevitable.

The two men would have liked to find out how some other stories had played out; they had lost touch with a few people from that time. It would have added a greater sense of completion to the tale, or satisfy curiosity if nothing else.

"You're one of my few real friends from those days," Simmer's friend told him. "Most were just acquaintances. People blowing in and out of my life. My life isn't anything like that anymore. And for the better, I think. At forty-six I don't have the energy for that kind of life. A good ten years of daily intoxication took it out of me. It's just that sometimes, when things are real quiet, I do think about those wild times. I can't help it, I guess."

"No, it's the same for me," Simmer said. "But hell, we sound like a couple of old men here. We still have some good times ahead, I know it. We're just in the over-forty club now. The pace is a little slower."

His friend laughed.

"That is the way to think about it, isn't it?"

"The only way."

This was one of those few times Simmer appreciated the use of a phone; the call had done them both some good, he thought. Just hearing his friend's voice had brought a smile to his face, one that stayed there a while after he hung up.

Copyright © M. Blake 2004

Guitar Man

by M. Blake

"They said he loved the drugs more than the music," she said. She was telling him about a recent interview she had seen with a band he had been a fan of in the past, or the surviving members of the band. The living members had discussed the lifestyle and death of the group's founder and most recognizable member, and how they were making music together again a few years after that well-covered (as in news) death. Of course, many of the questions dealt with the famous singer-guitarist's demise, as it was his longhaired, bearded, bespectacled and smiling visage most easily associated with the group; he had been the most visible and most quoted member.

He wasn't surprised to hear that the band was finally carrying on. A couple of the guys had tried solo projects and tours, but apparently they hadn't been too successful or lucrative. In fact, he couldn't say he had heard much at all about any of them, as so often happened when ex-members of a famous group went off on their own. They would make more money doing the older, well-known songs, with some new efforts mixed in.

He didn't believe the famous guitarist loved drugs more than his music, not for a second. That was one of those one-line summations that often finished an interview, something easy to quote and pass on, as it had been passed on to him over breakfast. You couldn't sum up a life like that, no matter how long they had known him. There were always things in a person's life you didn't know about, things you may have had an inkling of, but didn't know the full extent of. In other words, he thought, how do you gauge the depth of another's hell?

You couldn't, he knew. He had been a drug taker and boozer himself for years, and he knew that no one (and many had offered their thoughts, explanations and opinions) ever fully understood his personal situation, his motives, his struggle; it wasn't meant to be. They had their clues and glimpses, from what they gathered and what he shared; there was obviously a human link, and blood-driven associations could make for some connections; but there still remained that unseen, private depth that no one but himself plumbed. He wasn't sure anyone would be interested in doing that; they had their own private side (or hell, perhaps) to live with.

People could say: He was missing something in his life; or: There was some profound sadness about him; or: Things just got too much for him and he had to get away from it somehow. They could and would say such things, for an unexpected or "early" death seemed to bring that obligation, some comment on what a certain existence meant, a few words to shed some "light" in the final analysis. An inadequate remark or two for ceremony or the record, for how could it be otherwise?

There is no language—other than the man's music—for the final testimony, he thought. That's what he would be remembered for, not his drug use or style of dress. That music would be the man's life story in the end, when all of the sordid details had been, deservedly, forgotten. That in itself would show that the man loved nothing more than his music. He just needed some help in getting through the rest of the time.

Yet that final comment from the interview was enough for her, as it would be for many others, people who had never been close to the music anyway. To them, it was just another rock-and-roll death to take a brief, required (to call oneself informed) interest in.

He lost interest in breakfast, and left the TV room and the rustle of the morning newspapers and went to his bedroom, where he put a CD on, lay back on his bed and looked out at the sunny day. When he heard that familiar guitar on the first song, he smiled and said, who's dead?

Copyright © M. Blake 2004

Back Home

by M. Blake

So Simmer was back at home, and there were a few painful days as his body recovered from the alcohol poisoning and his thoughts dwelt on the sudden spiraling down of his short trip, like the flight of a wounded bird. Again he had hit the ground after losing control. He had felt like a high-flying bird for a short time before the poison brought him down again, but something inside him knew that the sickness would win again. It thrived on his estrangement from that around him, for that's what it came down to, no matter where he went, no matter what territory he went through. He was always a solitary bird flying on; it seemed he was compelled to. You could only make so much of a connection to the sights, and it seemed more difficult as the years went on to make a connection to people. He truly was a drifter these days, even when he stayed put in one place for a while. His longest journeys were inward, flights of the imagination. It was all he had, it seemed. His desire for intercourse was rare and usually kindled by drink. Sober, he shunned company for the most part.

Of course there were those who would say that this wasn't healthy, that he should get out and open up more with people. And it did seem to him that he went out of his way to avoid people at times, when something told him that further contact would be a waste of time.

That was the crux of it all, time. It is what pressured him more than anything. He just didn't feel he had it to waste, and Simmer felt that most people wasted too much of it. Even when "wasted" on drink, Simmer always felt that he was getting something out of the moment, something he could retain for a later time. He was selfish with his time, which is why he never could sustain a relationship, or close friendship for that matter. He was too erratic for that, too inconsistent. People wanted you to be available, and when regular contact tailed off, they looked elsewhere. Simmer had always accepted that as part of his way of life. In fact, he had let some "friendships" go without much difficulty on his part, and again it was Time that dictated that a change was due, that it was time to move on to something else. The solitary existence was his fate. Simmer always felt he communicated best to an empty piece of paper, alone with his thoughts. His worst depressions had always occurred in the periods of his life when he wasn't writing. It was a necessary outlet if he wanted some peace of mind. Which is why he was back home now. He'd had other options when on the road, but none of them held the same promise for his creative outlet, and Simmer could see what would happen without that.

Still, his decision hadn't lifted his spirits on the long bus ride home, or lightened his mood his first few days here. This despite the mild October days that, with their clear blue skies, seemed to showcase New England at its best. Postcard days, the weatherman called them.

Simmer was still wrapped up in his thoughts, even on his daily walks. He couldn't get out of his head and live in the moment. He just kept telling himself that he had made the right decision in coming home, despite the intrusion of pleasant memories from his recent time on the road. Walking in fine weather like this gave him thoughts of rolling down the highway again. But then he remembered that the bird's flight had been a short one. And where had he been flying to?

Copyright © M. Blake 2004

It Comes Back

by M. Blake

The afternoon sun rests on a memory from years ago. You can still smell the pot and feel the high coming out of you in lazy laughter. You still remember the knapsack with the beer in it.

It was the first time you had been to this place in the woods and you were surprised at how close it was to where you grew up. So close and yet you had never known about it.

"It's like something out west," your friend said.

Indeed, the view from the high rocks didn't seem like anything natural to this area. You were so high up, and suddenly there was a gap in the trees and you looked out into startling openness, a beautiful scene with a rock wall across the way and a mirror-like pond at the bottom of it. All the small talk went out of you.

The two of you sat there on a huge boulder and passed the joint back and forth and watched the birds sail on the wind currents. And sure enough, today, years later, you spot two hawks gliding above the same place.

You don't have any pot on this day and you haven't seen that friend in years. You wonder when was the last time he was up here and what kind of life he leads now.

At that time you were both single and interested in altering reality. Neither one of you had decided on an extended course to take in life. It was a day-to-day thing, and hence, you had time for things like day hikes and long drives in the car, smoking pot and drinking beer. You fed your heads with as much as possible: drugs, music, books, movies, and discussed these and touched on philosophy (for it wasn't cool to sound all too serious about things). You took the "fuck it all", easygoing stoner's approach to life.

Today, you smile at the thought of some of those times. You see young hikers of that age pass you on the trail and hear them gab away with enthusiasm. Yes, the woods always seemed like a natural place for good long talks. You recall some of the best talks you ever had taking place while hiking in the woods, you and someone else opening up like you never would have in a bar or coffee shop. Nature seemed to encourage it.

Those talking days are over, you think. There seems no point in those discussions now and it's easier to be alone.

For a few minutes, you think of looking up that old friend again; you have an idea of where he lives. You think of the two of you taking another hike up here. But it is only a brief consideration. Too much time has gone by, and you've heard he has a family. It's the same with so many friends from the past you never see anymore.

Yet you can still smell the pot smoke on that warm sunny day right around this early fall time of year. You remember the red eyes and the lazy laughter, high and looking out at it all from this fabulous perch.

Copyright © M. Blake 2004