3 Replies to “7.5.2015 Journal Prompt”

  1. You’ve heard the song, right? ‘Bout being stardust and golden and getting usselves back to the garden. Yeh, that one, ‘bout Woodstock. Well, I was almost there, you know, a child of god and almost at Yasgur’s farm. Fuck, I was so close I could smell the music and the flowers, and butterflies was hanging in the August air like the song says.

    The roads for miles was banged up with cars and not any of us going nowhere. And the day was hot as blisters and the air was breathless still. Me and Joany and Braskus, we was sharing the ride and it was like the whole world was stopped in its tracks. Braskus was cussing that we hadn’t left when we said we would – nobody’s fault in that but he was looking for someone to blame.

    Me and Joany, we was just laying back and enjoying the sun. Joany had some weed and she said Braskus should smoke some shit and chill out. There was this guy in the next car and he sat on the roof playing an old guitar and he took requests and maybe ten cars either side everyone was singing and it was like we was our own Woodstock right there.

    We was full of it, I reckon. And that’s ok cos we was young and beautiful and full of it is what’s allowed when you’re young. And Braskus smoked a joint or two and we was all beautiful then. And me and Joany, we made out on the back seat of the car and if it wasn’t the best sex I ever had, it was pretty damn near it, and is so in memory.

    It’s become a landmark now. Half a million made it to Yasgur’s and everyone was all loved up and the world was made to sit and listen and everywhere was filled with peace and hope and understanding. We was all brothers and sisters and it would be better from then on, everything would. And every which way better. And there’d be no more killing or wars, and we wouldn’t be no cogs in a wheel just turning, we was sure of that.

    Braskus sits on his front porch these days and he tells the story of how we almost made it. He’s talking about Woodstock and The Who and Ten Years After and Hendrix. And stuck in that car that day was as close as he ever got to hearing any of ‘em. But stil he tells the story. ‘So close I could taste it.’

    And me and Joany, we see each other sometimes, for a drink and to catch up. She’s married with kids and she’s all respectable in a house up on Highway Street. And I ask her if she’s happy and she says, ‘Almost.’ But Joany smokes a joint with me when she’s a mind to. For old times’ sake, she says. And she lets her hair down, shaking it loose, and she kicks off her two hundred dollar shoes and dances in the road – like we is kids again. And we make out maybe twice a year, in an out-of-town motel, and she insists on music in the room and she plays over and over that one song about going down to Yasgur’s and getting our souls free and everywhere there was song and celebration – only, the truth is we never did get there.

  2. I reckon as it was my daddy that done taught me everythin I know – everythin useful that is. I aint talkin schoolbook shit. I’m talkin stuff that makes the day turn a little easier. My daddy it was as got me my first guitar, a Harmony Stella six-string – he won it in a card game and he made a gift of it to me, like it was my birthday and Christmas all at once. He showed me how to play it, and though he only really knowed the one song, he could play it real beautiful and the house was suddenly filled with butterflies and bees.

    After that I was playin all the time and kids’d come to my door and ask me to pick out a tune for ‘em and I would, just sittin there at the front door and playin. It was ’bout then that my daddy said that I got a talent and he said I should put a song into every day cos a day without a song in it, well, it warn’t no day at all. There, and that’s somethin my daddy taught me and is just about the wisest thing I know, and you won’t find gold like that in no school lesson.

    It don’t matter if it’s a sad song or somethin dancin and laughin, just so long as it’s a song, and whatever the trouble, well, it just packs up its bag and leaves – makes a show of packin up its bag at least, cos troubles aint exactly solved with a song, it just feels as though they is. And I can recall my daddy sittin in his ol’ chair and his eyes closed like he was sleepin but closed only so he could listen all the harder, and me playin somethin bluesy or country, and my daddy said, without openin his eyes, how a song could take you a long ways away.

    And Kitty, well she was the same. She asked me sometimes to play her somethin, just so there’d be a sun in her day or so she’d be taken away from where she was. And I can picture her this one time, layin back on the bed, not a stitch to cover her on account of it was so hot in the house, and her swollen belly fit to burstin and a kickin inside her that made her wince – and I’m there playin somethin on that guitar my daddy gave me way back, and Kitty’s smilin and the world is set to smilin, too.

    What do schools teach you as compares with that? Dates and names, and readin and figurin. And maybe some of that’s of use, but it aint nothin to what my daddy taught me about the worth of a song. And me and Kitty, well, we do alright. And when she’s not ever in the mood, or the kids is awake when they should be sleepin and Kitty is all tight and strung out, well I just play her somethin. and the kids settle agin, and the house is filled with butterflies and bees like it always is, and Kitty all soft and kissin.

    And, as my daddy was fond of sayin, it’s love what makes the world go round, not book learnin, and he also said as there warn’t a song that’s worth shit that warn’t about love. My daddy only knowed one line from Shakespeare – I guess he heard it someplace, in school maybe – and it was somethin about ‘if music be the food of love, play on’. I learned that from him, too, and so I does what my daddy taught me – I play on.

  3. Yeh, so I got this friend, John, and I fucking love him, you know. I mean I really love him. Nearer than a brother he is and hanging with him is just so easy and such a blast. And it’s like we’s on the same wavelength all the time and we agree ‘bout most everything. Jesus, I aint never had a friend like that before. He finishes my thought for me and I fucking finish his.

    Don’t get me wrong. We aint lovers or nothing. He’s as straight as a ruled line and I am, too. I don’t look at him and think what it would be like to kiss him or something like that. I just love him and it’s like he’s a part of me and I’m a part of him.

    But the thing is, I hate him, too. Yeh, I’m all fucked up just thinking ‘bout that. Hate him for who he is and what he is. Hate him cos I want to be him, or be him inside of me – which does sound like I’m talking gay-talk, which I can assure you I aint.

    It comes down to this, see: there’s a girl. Shit, aint there always? Pretty as fucking peaches and I just melt to see her and all my words come out broken and muttering. And John feels the same. Fuck, if every man that sees her don’t feel it, too, and I wouldn’t blame ’em if’n they did. Her name’s Finny, which I don’t know what that means exactly, but I roll it ‘bout on my tongue when she’s not there, tasting it and tonguing it like a name could be a kiss all by itself.

    And me and John, when we’re by usselves and laid back and looking up at the stars and just overcome with the wonder of it all, then we talk ‘bout Finny and what it’d be like to see her with no clothes on and what we do to her if ever there was a God and our prayers answered – which is not what you think cos mostly we’d just worship her and beg for kisses. And we laugh at the stupid that we sound saying that and we don’t feel no shame in being such half-wits cos we’s both the same.

    Anyways, John and the thing I love ‘bout him is what he can do. He plays guitar, see, and he sings. I mean he just ups and plays any song you like and he probably knows the words. Girls like that. Fuck, maybe they even love it, I know I do, and that’s when I want to be him. And the other thing is he tells jokes, funny as fuck, and girls like that, too. And this day, didn’t he fucking play a song for Finny and he made her laugh and his prayers was answered and he got to live the dream we had – Finny went back to his place and she took off all her clothes and he begged for kisses and was gifted ‘em in buckets.

    Yeh, so I fucking love him and I fucking hate him, both at the same time and all on account of a girl called Finny. And I can’t even talk to her without sounding like an idiot and John just plucks on his guitar and a hundred love songs eloquently spilling from his lips – lips that kissed Finny maybe a thousand times already and I wish he was me or I was him.

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