It has been 22 years since I saw him sitting against my wall, in my unfurnsihed apartment.
We were good friends, but the then of my life, was not so friendly. Heck, the when of my life wasn’t so friendly either.
If you know him, tell him the one who gave him the scar and fell out of his car says hello. Tell him to”‘look at me, Jimmy C’ and tell him to drop a line here at garyrambles.
Sometimes the old saying of you can never go home is true , but we still fight our way, trying.
- Robbers stab Saskatoon man (cbc.ca)
- Sadies singer slips in Saskatoon (cbc.ca)
- Home Sweet Home ! – Saskatoon, Canada (travelpod.com)
- Woman stabbed, sawed-off shotgun pulled in pair of incidents Saskatoon police believe are connected (calgaryherald.com)
Wondering to colder days, days long ago. It is hard to age, to age gracefully. I want to kick and scream the whole way. There was a time when the mantra was “hope I die before I get old” and here I am;old.
Putting on lights on the Christmas tree while the family is away at some Christmas Fair. Decorating, listening to the music that made me alive. Frankie, Love and Rockets and then I ask myself, where did the time go? Where did I go? Did I sell out? Did the dream die as the decade moved past, slowly?
Avenue P and liquid lsd. 5 Star and a girl by my side. Avenue P and punk rock Christmas trees. Punk rocked boots, tattooing the stairs that carried me away into the stratosphere. Tattooed cells, gray matter splattered. Knives on the stove, Clash on the stereo. I still need a million dollars to sit on mountain tops and I have always seen the work of sinners and the work of the saints.
I see fabric, pulled taught across hidden memories. I think often of secrets spoken so long ago. Whispers of love, a kiss that reached below. The long john monkey spoke to me about those times. spoke aloud, softly in my ear and I knew I was loved. I knew it was you.
Children of the wayward streets, clinging to warmth, to love, to fire. Clinging to what was noble, what was good. The wind blew us apart, but the dreams, the dreams fight on. They live to tell the tale to children of this new dawn. Terry O died 20 years ago yesterday. Old man, old. I got away from the city of lights. I got away from everyone I wanted to fight. I got away from hearts strange addiction.
Blessed beyond measure.
I was dozing.
Dreaming of Cranberry and the Flats. Shallow summer river pools that drag you down. Summer girls, naked running through the dunes, hair on fire in the sun. Glistening and listening bodies motion to the current.
Someone should send me a picture. Lonely here. It was lonelier there but we were stars and never knew any better. Sometimes the wash is gray, floating in and out and the cover is warm. Cranberry Flats and the summer run. We never went there but I dreamed that we did. I dream that we still do.
Hard to be on this side of the line. So many times and seconds have past. Someone should send me some pictures. My memory is tied to a drug that was never really me. It is tied to a history of setting sunshine in a cerebral world. Skewed, cerebral but it was the reality you and I created. DO YOU REMEMBER??
I watch from afar now. I watch over fibre optics, nerves driving tears across the snow. I observe, I pray. I am becoming. What about you? As you watch the train pass you by, what about you? Smoking on a skinny white? This is a 2 -4 one deal. You get the ride and a wave. The smoke are tendrils around eyes, piercing the dark. Cars parked in the lot, bathers nude parade across the prairie sand, coolers of beer and coolers, cooling hot bodies. Dipping in the South Saskatchewan, a lovers embrace of cool muddy.
I know a secret.
Here’s the porter with a fresh bottle of Scotch. Night time rolls on down 2nd Avenue. Don’t miss your cue, it will be too late in the shadows.
Driving in my truck with the XM, got me thinking and rambling. Tainted love comes on. I wonder. I wander. In my time, I reflect on Saskatoon, the birth place of my death.
Overrated shows of the arcade. Mike doing a knife. I did more than anyone, background so slow. Loaf of bread came up for vomit. Lover’s kiss. She didn’t know. I think she would have still kissed me, even if she had known.
Truck comes to a stop.Work crews hosing the road. Saskatoon. Cold. Mike’s goat. Warm girl in my lap. Freezing. Outside winter trespasses through nook and crannies, eating away at the sane mind. It was all crazy. The ambitions of the few turned into the dreams of many. I should never have left. Paris was calling me from across the world, I couldn’t resist the siren call of the dead.
Are there records of me? Are there memories of me? I don’t know. I remember Avenue P, sitting on a couch. Bottle of rye in hand. Football players laughing at my hair. I said I would hurt them and they believed. I remember the stairs, falling, falling down but not dropping a sip of rye. I remember making a girl cry. Don’t recall the stop we were on, but nonetheless frozen tears stained her makeup.
My ’62. My Truck. Vehicles then and now. Different man.Then and now.Different friends.Then and now but they are so much the same. I had to leave. You understand that don’t you? I had to leave the desert for paradise. I had to. No regrets, more remorse. I had to leave. I had to let you go. All roads lead to Hell, but the one that is narrow, that is the secret. I hope you find it.
I love it when I feel reminiscent for the Prairies and then I check the weather.
Dec 12th today and they are forecasting temperatures today of -50 Celsius which is like -58 F. Now I don’t know about you, but to me, that is a little darned too cold. -50 C!! Not only is that ridiculous and that anyone would choose to continue living in that environment, but it also erases any remaining vestiges of nostalgia that I may have- at least until the spring.
Stare into the sun and relive the memory of warmth.
Who here remembers sitting in Paulie’s basement watching Highlander over and over? How many times for Blade Runner? The Hunger?
Cold Saskatoon nights, driving around in a darkened van making Pop Tart dust. EverClear rainbows by the ounce, never mind the gallon mix that they suggest. AC/DC playing loudly, me being led home because I was to drunk to see. And my combats were untied.
Flash forward to Plaza Of Nations. My special love telling everyone that it was her birthday and she brought me trays of beer. Sweet beer! Such nectar. I drowned in the amber, the cold highway that I had known all of my life.
Did I tell her that I loved her? Did I tell any of them that I loved them? I could only let them love me as much as I would allow, not as much as they could. Insufferable, intolerable.
My group of comrades, my friends. Paulie, Christa, Mike and Ian. Crazy days and the nights were worse. We took Dionysian mercurial, earthly delights to new levels. We partied, we lived and we partied some more.
Knives of the Stove, I christen thee Sir Hash!
Turmoil and turmoil. No peace. No rest.
Time slows down as I grow older. Faster.
Each day I wake up I realize that I am dying.
Have you ever been lost in time?
I mean more than simple nostalgia, but to be locked in a refreshing, replaying history? That is my life now, confounded by dreams focused on a specific time (7:30 am to be exact).
Time stuck in the 80’s, outside, inside Tramps Arcade in a prairie town. Punk rockers and natives, arguing, warring. made no sense really, but that is what we were.
Doing drugs, drinking 5 Star and Yukon Jack. Sometimes a bottle of Jack. I was in love and I was on top of the world. James Cagney all over again with the smoking machine gun, going down in a flame. Going down with the setting sun.
My friends, now long gone, except for Mike. My friends who saw me live and then see me die.
No regrets and there is no remorse, but sometimes, just sometimes….