"It's always best when things get whittled down," I said.
"which doesn't mean it's simple," I added.
There wasn't much to say for a while after that. It was 3am. Tired from an evening boiled down to conversation, vinyl and a turn-table. Boiled down like so many times before. Immediate. Simple. Shared.
Like Chicago with it's studio apartments, bands in small bars, drums set on milk crates and Maker's Mark mornings. Crouching in the corner of the practice space. Not saying a word. Not playing a note.
Always the music, always the friends, often the booze.
And for hours it had been gone. Amid the punk and the guitars and the beats. I had forgotten. It wasn't until I was on the couch that it filtered back. The anger that floats in and leaves like a dull breeze in summer.
4am came and slowly I remembered. You can't warn someone about something they already know. Everything boils away to nothing, eventually.
"So it was a good night?" she asked.
"It was."
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3 comments:
OK, I not as well read as you, it sounds like Garrison Keeler, if you wrote it confirms what I always tell folks, doesn't make any difference what he says, just read it, the guy is great.
Thanks, Rick. This one is me.
he's on the list to read now. Can I get a borrowed paperback from you my friend?
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