Ten minutes on March 21, 2008
Ten minutes on March 21, 2008
You took my love
And put it to the test
I saw some things that I never would have guessed
Neil Young yowling up here on the ridge. We are way up on a ridge at the top of nowhere. I saw the place and remembered Steven’s story about his motorcycle: it is locked in the barn of a boy named Jonny boy. The credit boys will never find it.
Neil young is singing, “Why do I keep fucking up” it is what 1980 he is live down here in Nevada City no recorded in a very fucking cool recording barn (on the ranch he bought from X with the buffalo). A four piece band playing this shit in a barn. Plywood Digital is his studio, in contrast with Redwood Digital which is Neil’s recording gig up where I live in Santa Cruz.
I’m at the end of the long day of March 20. I wrote this morning, in Coffee Town, fueled on espresso and anonymity and Steinbeck and the writer as a good identity for me now. And here it is 1:28 and we escaped under the radar of the Nevada City cops and got from the Izabels (very very good local band vocals bass killer bad fast guitar window of opportunity they played among maybe 14 songs all night).
We loaded the truck again. I dumped all the house stuff at about 1:30. The drive wasn’t bad; down Darcy’s road, then down 49 to west 20 right away right right right right until you are at the Fairgrounds (sculpture of a huge huge iron drawing horse pulling) and three miles down at the dump, weigh in, throw shit off the back of the truck, watch the bulldozer push it all into a pile, seven eight nine cars trucks dumping shit.
I thought, this is like a funeral home for objects. The soul is gone from this mixer, this CD player, this set of dishes, this bag of bathroom articles, this overstuffed sofa missing a cushion. I didn’t feel a lot of emotion, but instead like the gravedigger in Hamlet. “Alas poor Yorick. I knew him Horatio.”
So right now the truck is loaded and pointed the right way the goodwill stuff is all together on the left side of the garage and the floor is swept and the plaece straightened.
I just said goodnight to Steven. It is 1: 50 and I’m listening to live or livish Neil Young and he is totally rocking it. With the champagne eyes. I love the way she walks I love the way she talks I love the way she moved Farmer John I’m in love with your daughter the one with the champagne eyes [radical rocked out Neil guitar here with Crazy Horse backing him up). We got back from the trip to Nevada City: we ate seriously again and drank a bottle of sangiovese that wasn’t very good and Steven thought the waitress was awfully nice and I did too. We paid and tipped her out and went to the Izabel gig, getting there right on time. I talked with a woman who dug the Talking Heads the DJ was playing in between the pregroup and Izabel. She turned out to be selling their T shirts and CDs. The band was, as advertised, high energy, up and coming, with an amazing guitar player and a set of reasonably party friendly songs and a nice crowd. Dancing after a day of moving the last of Darcy’s stuff was good; the long guitar jams made for a nice long space to dance in, and there were a few people who seemed delighted to be rocking out. Steven knew the two girls in red dancing together; they said hey and danced with him and he was one happy country boy.
Music and shots of Patrone and meeting people; then the long drive from Nevada City to this little burg, filled with talking and the full moon, still hanging in the sky and silvering the mountain and the road and all.
Two am exactly. Time to dive underneath the covers of my bed near the lamp I always wanted from Amsterdam with the three tulips, and the poster of the absinthe queen that I have too, and the books on magick and a mirror at 10 year old height for his daughter when she comes over.
OK, this one is in the books. Let the record show that today was full of light, late winter light everywhere. And finally – let it show that while I was loading the truck, a pest control guy came by and we got to talking he heard about Jeremiah and Darcy and he said damn drugs then he said don’t get me wrong I warn’t no angel and he talked about the sixties and doing acid and how some of his friends didn’t make it back from the acid use. And he looked up and got an expression rather like the Ancient Mariner of the Rime and said, “I have always lived by the saying, ‘Don’t take anything your spirit can’t kill.”
When Steven later drove up the three of us talked a little then the bug guy left (Burroughs was a bug guy, Steven reminded me) and I told Steve what he’d said to me, as if the whole day was for him to come bearing this one true thing.
Goodnight, Grampa. Goodnight, jen girl.
You took my love
And put it to the test
I saw some things that I never would have guessed
Neil Young yowling up here on the ridge. We are way up on a ridge at the top of nowhere. I saw the place and remembered Steven’s story about his motorcycle: it is locked in the barn of a boy named Jonny boy. The credit boys will never find it.
Neil young is singing, “Why do I keep fucking up” it is what 1980 he is live down here in Nevada City no recorded in a very fucking cool recording barn (on the ranch he bought from X with the buffalo). A four piece band playing this shit in a barn. Plywood Digital is his studio, in contrast with Redwood Digital which is Neil’s recording gig up where I live in Santa Cruz.
I’m at the end of the long day of March 20. I wrote this morning, in Coffee Town, fueled on espresso and anonymity and Steinbeck and the writer as a good identity for me now. And here it is 1:28 and we escaped under the radar of the Nevada City cops and got from the Izabels (very very good local band vocals bass killer bad fast guitar window of opportunity they played among maybe 14 songs all night).
We loaded the truck again. I dumped all the house stuff at about 1:30. The drive wasn’t bad; down Darcy’s road, then down 49 to west 20 right away right right right right until you are at the Fairgrounds (sculpture of a huge huge iron drawing horse pulling) and three miles down at the dump, weigh in, throw shit off the back of the truck, watch the bulldozer push it all into a pile, seven eight nine cars trucks dumping shit.
I thought, this is like a funeral home for objects. The soul is gone from this mixer, this CD player, this set of dishes, this bag of bathroom articles, this overstuffed sofa missing a cushion. I didn’t feel a lot of emotion, but instead like the gravedigger in Hamlet. “Alas poor Yorick. I knew him Horatio.”
So right now the truck is loaded and pointed the right way the goodwill stuff is all together on the left side of the garage and the floor is swept and the plaece straightened.
I just said goodnight to Steven. It is 1: 50 and I’m listening to live or livish Neil Young and he is totally rocking it. With the champagne eyes. I love the way she walks I love the way she talks I love the way she moved Farmer John I’m in love with your daughter the one with the champagne eyes [radical rocked out Neil guitar here with Crazy Horse backing him up). We got back from the trip to Nevada City: we ate seriously again and drank a bottle of sangiovese that wasn’t very good and Steven thought the waitress was awfully nice and I did too. We paid and tipped her out and went to the Izabel gig, getting there right on time. I talked with a woman who dug the Talking Heads the DJ was playing in between the pregroup and Izabel. She turned out to be selling their T shirts and CDs. The band was, as advertised, high energy, up and coming, with an amazing guitar player and a set of reasonably party friendly songs and a nice crowd. Dancing after a day of moving the last of Darcy’s stuff was good; the long guitar jams made for a nice long space to dance in, and there were a few people who seemed delighted to be rocking out. Steven knew the two girls in red dancing together; they said hey and danced with him and he was one happy country boy.
Music and shots of Patrone and meeting people; then the long drive from Nevada City to this little burg, filled with talking and the full moon, still hanging in the sky and silvering the mountain and the road and all.
Two am exactly. Time to dive underneath the covers of my bed near the lamp I always wanted from Amsterdam with the three tulips, and the poster of the absinthe queen that I have too, and the books on magick and a mirror at 10 year old height for his daughter when she comes over.
OK, this one is in the books. Let the record show that today was full of light, late winter light everywhere. And finally – let it show that while I was loading the truck, a pest control guy came by and we got to talking he heard about Jeremiah and Darcy and he said damn drugs then he said don’t get me wrong I warn’t no angel and he talked about the sixties and doing acid and how some of his friends didn’t make it back from the acid use. And he looked up and got an expression rather like the Ancient Mariner of the Rime and said, “I have always lived by the saying, ‘Don’t take anything your spirit can’t kill.”
When Steven later drove up the three of us talked a little then the bug guy left (Burroughs was a bug guy, Steven reminded me) and I told Steve what he’d said to me, as if the whole day was for him to come bearing this one true thing.
Goodnight, Grampa. Goodnight, jen girl.
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