A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || September 8, 2004 || 12:19 am

“I’m trying to spell what only the wind can explain.”
or, “Hi there, Franny.”

Certain things do it to me, put me in this exact sort of mood, make me soft and sweetly awakened, plump my lips. The song ‘Colorblind’ by the Counting Crows is one. A rainy day is another.

I arise in the dark of this morning to the sounds of rain, and it colors the beginning of my day: I am warm, well, happy to be alive. I drive the children to school, the announcement of which pulls a hands-clasped Superior Dance of Glee from the legs of Scout and Mathias while Sam –immersed in preteen cool– smiles embarrassedly. Scout and Mathias (in true elitist fashion) despise the schoolbus, so they hold a fervent hope in their hearts for days such as these that preclude them waiting at the stop. Sam likes the jouncing, loud communal spirit of the daily ride: Anarchy on wheels, replete with the dried-up snaggletoothed driver of early schoolbus lore.

Today is a rarity; Maxim and I are afforded the hardly-ever opportunity to ride together to work. I am driving his car today while mine is in for minor repairs

(Dear Rotors,

Thank you veryfucking much for flopping over and making like dead this week. Would it have killed you to have waited until my return from Scotland??
How I hated writing that check. Bastards.

Love, Jett)

, necessitating my dropping him off. Only, I’m not really dropping him off, as he is driving. It’s more like he’s dropping himself off and I’m high-fiving him on his way outta the car.

The weather couldn’t be more perfect. Rainy days have a narcotic effect on me. More specifically, it’s like an advertising slogan in favor of endorphins: “All the high, none of the felonious charges and grody repercussions.”

[aside: When seeing Jimmy Chamberlin at the now-defunct (but ever-fabulous in my heart!) 5 Points South Music Hall, I was all, "Oh holy shit, would you look at the size of his guns?" Maxim nodded sagely and said, "Endorphins". Jimmy had been clean a couple-handful of months by then. My God, though, his arms were nothing shy of huge. /aside]

I pull into the gas station, David Gray’s ‘Flesh’ locked and loaded. I love that his laughing-in-a-deliciously-natural-manner visage is emblazoned across the disc. Track four, oh my-my-my lord. The first time we heard this album, well…

MAXIM: He sounds very Irish on this one.

JETT: And very, ah…angry.

MAXIM: Well, don’t the two go hand-in-hand?

My response was to smile and think of my great-gran and his wife, whose namesake I am. He was Irish, she was angry. They sired nine children and every one of them lived to a ripe old age. I guess Irish and angry make good stock. And maybe a revolutionary fighter or two.

(…and you are not allowed to quote me on that last bit, friends. My family forced me to sign a confidentiality agreement, despite all my best anti-establishment objections.}

So, track four, and the gas station is so empty that it just kind of feels like a big ole carport with gas pumps conveniently jutting from the pavement at accidental, strategically-placed angles. I turn up the volume just a bit and step out of the car, unscrew the gas cap, press some buttons and begin fueling. As I stare (mildly askeert) at the stupidly generous amount of cards they honor, I grow uncomfortable with a sense of helpless foreboding. I do this sometimes, and many times I thoroughly ponder the object of my discomfort. You know, let my brain run laps around it so as to make the fear drown in the sweat of my synapses.

But today is no day for that. It is raining, I am feeling small: The lone –save for a Co-Cola truck and its uniformed soda shuffler– carport-dweller playing at being a grownup. My stance is solid in my boots, my hands steady. I look off into the easy gray of the skies, far, far off and think of how one day my stance may not be so sure, my hands markedly less so. I think on these things as the wind pulls yet another curl loose from my piled-up hair; rainy days make my locks desperately try to escape the conformity of a straight, sleek line. I’ve learned to just let the weather do what it will to my coif and not sweat it very much atall. I got a hairbrush, after all, and it’ll always have its time somewhere down the way.

This affable school of thought was helped along by an instance with a lover some years back. We were in the midst of a tumble, the humidity we created wreaking havoc on any hope of a smoothly sexy look from the crown up. At one point I made my way to the top, and he mock-exclaimed, “Help! I’m being attacked by a lioness!”

Two things make my eyes the most startling, amazing shade of blue you’ve ever seen: Rainy days and tears. Fortunately for the world, the two have not coincided thus far. It just might happen that children and passers-by would drop dead, preachers would gibber at the sight, clocks would run backward were they both to occur on the same day. I can tell by the look on your face that you think I exaggerate. You err, sir.

It is a good day for my eyes, and as I aim them toward the horizon, a voice calls over to me, saying one word. I’ve left the car door open, pulled up the volume just a notch or two so that I can hear the exquisite things delivered to my soul via my ears.

And, you know, mouth along.

So one word, and my head whips to corner him, because he’s named the album and Co-Cola drinkers might not be so bad after all. Although, he may indeed merely deal the product and not sample off of it. I don’t ask; I don’t think to. I am this shocked that he knows the album, and –on an entirely different level– it sure is something to hear a complete stranger under an otherwise-empty awning say something so simple and powerful as the word flesh to you.

“Flesh.” How magic.

Even moreso, how spectacular that I am privileged to be part of said hoodoo.

The day swims on, and I am blessed with no traffic mishaps, with spicy vegetables (the Irritable Chinese Guy was pleasant to me today. Pleasant! Doesn’t he know I have a readership to entertain with his surly dog-and-pony show? The nerve!), with sweet faces, with kind e-mails.

There is an origami elephant a friend of Sam’s crafted from a dollar bill and presented to me.

There is laughing and collectively working at the dining room table and chili and kissing damp, freshly-showered noggins on my way out the door to work.

This one case entails a lot of driving, so there is much conversation between us. But tonight, on the way home, she is different. She starts speaking her heart to me; her beautiful heart with all its misgivings and desires and everything wrapping them together trickles out, coating the words like some rich and powerful and inescapable indulgence. She is earnest, but even more poignant than the earnestness is the sense of hope that it is sprinkled across it. I listen, and despite my vow of a couple weeks/months/whatevers ago I am buoyed up on a sea screaming things like PROGRESS! and BREAKTHROUGH! and HAY-ULL YEAH! out at the circling birds and whomever else will listen to the shouts of the waves.

And then she says something to me so perfect, so suitable, so fitting an end to the wonderful day I’ve been given with the wind and the rain and the quiet soul:

“I just wanna be half-ass normal.”

There are worse wants.

11 worked it out »

  1. Dean 9.8.2004

    When is the book being published? I want one of the first copies.

     
  2. blamb 9.8.2004

    I want a pet goat.

     
  3. becky 9.8.2004

    i think i’d settle for a 1/4-ass.

     
  4. charles 9.8.2004

    That is a beautiful post. Thank you.

     
  5. spibbly 9.8.2004

    that is a good CC song.

    btw, found a link to an artist you might like:
    http://www.roqlarue.com/frame/frm-current.html

    along the lines of mark ryden (sp?).

    yerz trooly,

    spibbly (aka that friend you have that can’t keep a weblog for more than 6 months).

     
  6. Jettomatika 9.8.2004

    How ’bout you give me a jingle, dickweed? You can even call collect.

    I don’t even let my own MOMMA calll collect.

     
  7. red clay 9.8.2004

    oh, Lord, am i gonna have to cut this short.

    i can’t help but play in the rain.

    i come in with a grin so happy, you’d swear i had been lobotomized.

    same thing with my eyes, too.

    but gray. blue when the spring sun busts the sky wide open, and gray when all them clouds go draggin by.

    my eyes are so pretty, the Priest made me promise not to talk to girls. like that, it ain’t stealin candy from a baby, it’s leanin over and grinnin. and damned if the baby don’t just hand it over, beg you take it from her fat hands.

    but the rain. everybody is runnin for shelter and i’m out, kickin thu the puddles.me and the world and the passing cars. we are clean, and some of us are happy.

     
  8. red clay 9.8.2004

    it lets me know, sometimes, too.

    i was out with a young lady. it was the first time, and early. we were still each and the others measure.wary, but willing. in a bar downtown. and then the rain came, like it does down here. fat cold drops on the window. and just for the helluvit, i turned to her to ask, “you wanna?” and i turned to see her out in it, and she was climbin in the fountain.

    tell me that’s not a sign.

    tell me. i’ll call you a liar.

     
  9. Wendolene 9.9.2004

    COLORBLIND! I always told Joe I wanted to lose my virginity to that song. (It has nothing to do with that damn “Cruel Intentions.”) I didn’t, but I guess that’s part of losing it on your future mother-in-law’s living room floor.

    Also, I saw the Smashing Pumpkins three times in ‘00, and even then, Jimmy’s arms were frickin huge.

     
  10. Kat 9.9.2004

    redclay, those two posts were delicious.

     
  11. redclay 9.13.2004

    thanks, kat.

    and jett, honey, i can’ seem to comment on the cigarboxes. save ther piss off one for me in stead of the medals. i need to give that to a friend.

     

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