Band Practice

They hadn’t heard the wind or the patio furniture as it was lifted off the deck, across the yard, and into the fence. They didn’t hear the umbrella pop open fly over and into the neighbor’s pool. Not one of them had heard the old pin oak in the front yard snap in half both sides falling. One nose-diving into Jessica’s car (the neighbor girl) and the other, pulling up square yardage of dirt and tossing sidewalk blocks aside like wafers, crushing the minivan.

They hadn’t heard anything besides the distorted decibels and tightly tuned percussion. Ears plugged with foam and assaulted by deep gainy bass and the ironic rage of pubescence all but closed off from the world outside that garage. In the middle of that garage where the sound from all three instruments collided and created a symbolic blanket of sanctuary.

The last cymbal crash was slowly fading into the sound of heavy rain outside and a low feedback hum. The guitarist noticed water was pouring in under the side door.

“Holy shit.” He said. He could barely hear himself say it as he reached to remove his earplugs.

The other two followed impulsively fingering for their plugs, the bassist with her fancy pro gear version was already finding her case to pack them safely away. The drummer threw is waxy fluorescent green ones towards the trash, missed with both and shrugged it off. They both followed the guitar players eyes to the water rushing in as he said once more to make sure he had said it loud enough.

“Holy fucking shit!”

He added expression and an extra adjective.

Loud thunder roared that instant and the garage shuddered as if an explosion went off just outside. It rattled away into the sound of rain.

They made three-way eye contact. The holy fuck kind. Axes were set aside and throne abandoned. The guitarist didn’t want to walk in the puddle with his overpriced sneakers so he grabbed a broom and reached for the garage door button. The electronic buzz and floppy chain struggled to heave the door open and water immediately poured in.

“Close it, brah. Hurry.” The drummer shouted. The guitarist panicked and jammed the broom handle hard into the opener breaking it from the wall with the door still opening.

“Fuck!” He said.

He looked at the water getting close to his shoes now and questioned his resolve. They were such rad shoes. He delayed. Fuck it, he walked into the water and tried to assemble the opener. He had no idea what to do with it and the garage door was all the way open. His jaw dropped.

The other two turned and joined him in awe. Mouths fully agape. The water filled the floor and reached their equipment as they edged to the precipice of the garage as if anywhere outside it were cursed. There was a pop and a fountain of sparks and the garage lights went black. Outside it was a spooky green and it smelled like mud and natural gas. The streets were covered in glass, branches, pieces of wood, green leaves, pieces of car, a bathtub, some furniture, garbage and water flowing like you could river raft in it. They could feel the air swirl. An entire swath of the block was just gone. Obliterated. Foundation outlines with some pipe shooting out here or there.

The bass player dropped to her knees. “My van! Please, God no!” The other two looked at each other, mouths still wide open and at the same time realized they should be documenting this. They dug for their phones.

The Scene

She walked away from the scene as if in slow motion and she wondered if time was fluid with neither endings or beginnings. And she wondered what the difference would be whether or not it was so. Were there people tuned into this concept and deliberately exploiting it?

Under duress, it all seemed like an epiphany – a voice deeper down told her that it sounded stupid. Better to focus and piece together what had happened, she told herself.

She gazed down at her blood covered clothes and hands with adrenaline focused pupils. It belonged to both her and the deceased of this she was sure. The palms of her hands had been sawed into crudely against the jawbones gnarly slapdash teeth as she plunged it into his chest cavity ad nauseam. She turned and gazed again upon the scene.

“I did that?” She asked herself while spinning back around. She vomited on a car.

As she pressed away from the hood she triggered the alarm and it blared in the quiet, late night. Suddenly she felt a sharp stabbing pain in her back as if something were pushing through and into her spinal column. She reached back over her shoulder with one hand and under with the other. No good – it was in that one spot she couldn’t reach. She alternated hands over, under.

Not happening.

She put her right hand on her left elbow and pushed down hard on her more flexible arm. She pushed it until it felt like the socket would pop, just then with the tips of her fingers, she felt a stoney, smooth surface. It wriggled away feverishly at her touch. She pressed down harder on her elbow but there was no way to grip or get leverage.

She couldn’t stop it!

It forced its way further in and she felt it wrap around her spine with a thousand razor-sharp angel hairs. The sound of the car alarm, all sound, was elsewhere.

And, oh the agony. The pasta gripped tighter. She unraveled and stopped struggling, returning her arms down to her sides. She thought she had defeated her assailant, but he was still victimizing her now. Her eyes turned into swirling portals and she could feel her memories being consumed. Deleted.

And that was the last thing she remembered thinking.

Whooop, whooop, mehhhhn, mehhhhn, mehhhhn. The car alarm was inconsolable.

Promises Otherwise Unkept

So a promise is sacred, at least in maintaining relationships. But, I guess we don’t ever really get away from ourselves… unless we lose it, and I’ve lost it a few times; had to find my way back*. Anyone who has accomplished this feat of mental health jujitsu understands, basically how not easy the process is

Mostly, because we are dicks to ourselves. Overly critical.

We hold the past against ourselves, even as we say aloud we won’t. We let things hurt because, with a smile we allow the sadness of everything within proximity a piggy back ride. We have settled time and again for our “lot in life.” We said we weren’t going to let ourselves do that again.

We make ourselves promises and wonder in the moment if we even mean it. Such a cynical way to set goals and motivate. It’s amazing we get anything accomplished at all really. It’s hard to stop the negative self talk when you are stared in the face by your irrational decision making… and fully get that it’s irrational.

Because, this is who we are – or, at least that’s what we have cut our selves short for in order to fill the role. It’s lazy. We know it. But, confronting that backlog of shit we didn’t do, couldn’t do, wouldn’t do and so on is a tough mother fucker to sort out. There are emotions we want to avoid and faces known now only by memory. Longing. Regret.

I say “we” in hopes to reach out, express that someone else understands, and for myself because I don’t want to believe that I’m alone. At the very least some culpability in future promises kept.

 

*Going back, yet recalling the fact that you cannot unexperience/unsee things.

Not Giving Up On Myself

I’m coming to a boiling point and have been at a simmer for far to long. If I can produce things based on other peoples ideas and expectations, and those things be effective, then I can do the same for myself. I just need to give myself at least that much credit.

Let’s get something done!

See you soon friends.

Other Days

Some days are a little rougher than other days. Getting out of bed, or waking from a binge watching coma on those other days can be a struggle. It felt mucky there in the swamp of self-pity, a hangover of the soul. His mind was already consumed with each step of each task for the day and beyond, and in-between. Things that needed to be done and those which should have already been.

He re-planned it all again, it felt like a giant tome of great enlightenment lay over his body, weighing him down; challenging him and chastising him simultaneously. There was no doubt in his mind that procrastination was the clasp, insecurity the padlock on that book. Opening it was enticing, but avoiding failure was much simpler process.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply in threw his nose, hefty out from a mouth full of aweful breath. Counting in his head, he promised himself he would pick a number to get up on. 34, 35, 36, 37, get up. 38, 39, get up. Another big breath and he flung the pilled, faded blanket aside and shut up off the mattress on the floor.

Steps for today’s activities played over in his head with minor revisions and complete re-writes.