Little Bill

Last night, coming home from an evening of drinks with friends, I found myself walking in 19°F (-7.2°C) degree weather in the wind. Thanks to New York parking rules, it involved walking under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway where my car is often parked. Moving my car to the other side of the lot, or street, is a part of my daily routine. It is the last thing I can do before settling in at home.

It was not the last thing I did.

There was a homeless man using my car as shelter from the wind and the cold and it would have been impossible to move without crushing his legs. He cursed and yelled and screamed when I asked him to move, stomping off down the street. He left his bundle of blankets behind. I’d never felt like a more hypocritical asshole for being more concerned over an eighty-five dollar parking ticket than for this man’s shelter.

I found myself cursing society after parking the car; wondering why, if we’re so fucking civilized and advanced, this must go on. By the time I’d gotten home I was on a ranting tirade, when my good friend Nicole reminded me that I could do my part. I was humbled by her simple suggestion. Why hadn’t I thought of it? I am a part of "our society." too, right?

I own one less blanket now. The man wasn’t even there to receive it, so I left it on his pile of blankets and walked away. It wasn’t much of a gesture, but it was something. I wonder what I’ll do if I see him again.

The rest of the night I spent coming to terms with this ugly world. On the whole, we cannot take what we want and pretend the ugliness is gone. You take the bad with the good. Otherwise you can seek another town, another city. A suburb. Something comforting and pretty with no edge, no challenge. Contrary to popular belief, ostriches do not bury their hand in the sand.

The tips of my fingers on my left hand are sore. I took out my guitar today for the first time in months. It’s one of the few times I’d taken it out of its case since sending its mangled carcass (read: the bridge had completely pulled up from the face) back to the factory for some tender loving craft*. The guitar came back two months later almost as new. My father and I opted not to restore the dings and bangs on the back of the guitar neck since removing all of its scars; that would be taking away the character it had developed over our lives.

I was inspired, of all things, by a Macy’s commercial on television. They had covered From Me to You by the Beatles. Anyone who knows me would be able to say — without hesitation — that they are my favorite musicians. From there I proceeded straight into my bedroom to unlatch the hardshell case and pull the old guitar from its home. After grabbing a pick, I walked back into the living room where I tuned her up and picked out the song.

After that I started noodling around all over the fretboard. I began to rediscover riffs and melodies, sketches really, of songs that I’d never completed. One riff in particular came back to me as if I’d never forgotten how to play it. I was able to craft it into a complete instrumental, with three separate guitar parts.

It’s the most beautiful piece of music I’ve created. It is the embodiment of everything good I’ve ever felt. The more I played the more things came out in me, which fed back into my own playing. I plan on recording it before the year ends.

I cannot wait for you to hear it.

* Tender Loving Craft — a play on the acronym TLC (Tender Loving Care) by the professors at the small Upstate New York art school where I studied. It emphasized crafting your artwork with particular attention to detail and quality of construction meant to withstand less-than-gentle handling. We don’t do things half-assed.

Three days, three hours, three states. Fenway. Blueberry Ale and meeting Coco Crisp. A thick, juicy O’Sullivan’s burger. Legal clam chowder. A Harry Potterthon. New friends, new trains, new bridges, new skyline. A new breath to fall asleep to. New arms, new lips, new… but not the same. New anticipation and new disappointments.

New standards.

A new bed begets new dreams: restless, abstract, lucid and terror. All in three days.

No new love, just ghosts.

It occurred to me as I was passing through West Haven. I hadn’t been there in many years. I was reminded of the night we sat side-by-side on the jetty overlooking the sound. The air was brisk and you came underdressed. I came prepared, and when you shivered you were given my jacket. I was repaid with the kiss I’d wanted for two years. And then you took me to bed. You ruined redheads for me, I want you to know. They have all been compared to you, and you will forever be the juxtaposition by which they will be judged. From time to time I wonder where you are, where you’ve been and where you’re going. Consider this me reaching out.

And how could I not think of you? There is no sea. There are no other fish. And neither someone else nor someone better is you.

A new life. A new horizon to cross. A newfound silence: unwelcome.