And first, it was rock and classic songs that were known and sung by the generation before mine. I was as young as they come and too new and unaware of what I was about to open.
But I was ready.
I say the word “open” as if to open a sacred box, quite opposite from Pandora, but equally, I say once you know, you can never unknow, unsee, or un-feel the experience. Even more, you will never forget the first time you hear a good song. Or even better, you never forget the music that made up the perspective of our youth.
When you know, you know and, of course, I think of the sources and influences and the tiny doses that expand the mind with a vast euphoria.
I remember rebellions and inspirations. How could I forget them?
I remember the way I swore that I would never follow or walk the line and be like sheep or act and be like anybody else.
Take the road less-travelled. Grow your hair.
Dose yourself with tiny sheets of 8-hour trips that bring the mind beyond the hemispheres of sanity and self-control.
I remember the uniforms of my choice. I remember my aged denim jacket. I remember the pack of cigarettes which I kept inside my pocket. I remember the little flask I stole, which I kept with me. I remember my boots. I remember my ripped up and faded jeans and my t-shirts, usually of a band that fit the music and the mottos of my disobedient youth.
There is a memory I have in which I was alive and somewhat well. I was entering a new phase. My body was starting to change. I was starting to think, feel, and notice more and more, each day, that, in fact, there is such a thing as the opposite sex. While I might not have been the most wanted, I was not the least. I was not the best or the worst. But worst of all, I saw myself as someone who was completely in-between or average at best.
And who wants that?
Who would love me?
Who would want me?
Who would choose me over the others? In the event that someone did choose me, what would I do?
How would I know?
How would I know how far to take it? Would I know when to stop?
Would I blow my chances or could I find a way to pull this off?
If I was stopped, would I know how or when to begin again?
What do you do when a girl shows you that special smile?
Would I be able to learn as I go?
Would I know how to play it cool?
If so, what could I do with hopes to move a little deeper and feel a little more?
Even better, what do I do if she gives me her permission to remove the flower from our souls?
Then finally, I would know what it means to know.
I would know how it feels to slip inside her station and dock myself here until my liftoff blows.
Ah, but yes.
I remember the songs. I remember the music I chose. I remember the symptoms of my teenage insanity. Even more, I remember the way I tried to balance the act of being me and being cool.
And sure, I experimented.
There were times when I wished I had the courage. There were times when I wished I knew what to say and how to act or “be.”
But in all fairness, I was out of my head. I was out of my mind.
I was gone too young and too high to understand that this was only a phase.
I remember the nights and the summers and the times when the carnivals came to town. I remember the view I had of young girls from the neighborhood, and all of us in the crowd were crazy in our own way.
We were all wild. Just differently. That’s all.
I remember the feeling of what it means to be with a girl. I remember the need for music in the background, like Led Zeppelin or of course, I remember the first time I heard Van Morrison sing the song Sweet Thing.
I remember how I thought to myself, “This must be what love feels like.”
This had to be what love feels like. I swore.
When Van Morrison sang, “And I shall drive my chariots down your streets and cry, ‘Hey, it’s me, I’m dynamite, and I don’t know why’” I remember thinking, yes.
This is what I would do if I was in love.
I would run down the streets or scream from a rooftop.
Ah, to die by the sword or to fall on it, if need be.
To feel that wealth or the surge and the adrenaline that someone out there is so perfect and beautiful that age and youth is only a concept in which time means nothing so long as she means everything.
I suppose I can chalk this up to capricious youth . . .
The impulse of lust.
The inaccuracies of supposed truth.
As I recall, I was telling you about a memory.
I remember a night after a psychedelic mixture of LSD, some beer, weed, the confusion of life, and a walk home during the first cold morning in early November.
I remember the frost on the grass. I remember having the music from Lynyrd Skynyrd, wired to my ears.
I started with songs like Tuesday’s Gone, and Simple Man, and me?
I had just turned 14, not too long before.
I was too young. Too high.
And I struck out way too often.
But I tried.
God knows . . .
I tried.
The Written Addiction 