I wasn’t even a good singer on Room for Squares.
Oh my god, so fucking true. Love you tho, johnny, but yeah.
I started this book a while back. Not reading a book; I’m like, writing one. I’m writing a book! Every morning I wake up early and put the coffee on and get my smokes lined up and I’d start typing away, smoking and drinking that coffee, hoping that the creative juices are flowing in and over me and through me and out and on to the page where my thoughts collect into a pool of readable and comprehensible words. Yeah, it’s going well. It goes well until it doesn’t. Like now. Sometimes (like now) I get sidetracked by my creative influences and I spend all my time sitting my bedroom and listening to all the Bruce Springsteen records that I own, just listening like 100 times and then I get out my guitar and I strum along with Jungleland and I feel really fucking creative, dude. Then I realize that I’m not very creative at all, that I’m just wishing hard to be creative, to create something meaningful. My love of culture and art has taken over my actual ability to produce art of any kind, but I at least try and convince myself that being an appreciator of art is just as good as actually making art in the first place, which it isn’t. But all this humanistic knowledge I’ve been wasting all theses years, while trying to spill out just dry up inside my drug addled brain.
Take the next nine minutes of your day and listen to Jungleland. If you don’t own Born To Run, then I feel OK in calling you a fool. You should own it on 180 gram vinyl AND a digital copy (but don’t transfer your vinyl copy to digital, that’s silly because while listening to the sound degradation on your vinyl copy is cool, when you want to really hear it you don’t want all that scratching on your digi copy). Go ahead now, put it on, and listen to it. Listen to the compression on the piano mixed with the strings, at the beginning. Picture in your head, Bruce standing in front of you singing, using all of his energy to belt out the lines. His face is red, and strained. He breathes heavily, and his breathing causes you to breathe heavier in anticipating, you’re being sucked in. Almost 2 minutes in, the electric guitar and the organ swell in, Max on the drums is beating. Boom, boom. Close your eyes. Do you have a beer in your hand? No? Get one. Start drinking it. You’re on a porch, sitting against the house. There’s a smell of barbeque. You may or may not be smoking a cigarette. Clarence (rip) starts in on that solo. Your eyes should still be closed. Take a sip of your beer and try to envision yourself lost in the era that’s passed. You are in Jungleland. Mr. Springsteen is narrating your life, your summer, that summer. Now, if you’ve done this correctly you will begin to realize why I’m nowhere near to being finished on this novel that I’m writing. I just can’t help it. I get lost in the simplest things. I get lost in the ideas. Which isn’t always a bad thing, I mean, ideas can set you free, they can do so much for you that at times, it’s all we have. Until it stops you from being productive in the first place. Right now I’m lost in this song. It’s interesting to note that in the song, The Rat’s own dream guns him down. His dream kills him, what the fuck does that mean for me? But Bruce Springsteen gets it, man. But he’s right the poets down here don’t write nothin’ at all. Clarence is wailing away and I am no longer here. I am a transcendental being and will not be bound to what the world’s ideas for me and my happiness are. This is the freedom that we’ve been searching for for our whole lives. I have made it; ascent is here. It’s a shame really, though, because in like 30 minutes I have to get up from this cozy seat at my local Starbucks and walk to work, and work for like 6 consecutive hours, at a job that I don’t really like, but I can stand it, mostly. After work I’ll probably get a few beers with the fellas, and then stumble home, and listen to more music, but, see it won’t mean as much to me because when I’m drunk in that way, the true artistic side of everything is lost to the sense of dullness, the numbness that covers my senses, and at that point I’ll reach for the telephone and I’ll make a call. I’ll attempt to call Carrie, like I always do when I’m feeling lonely and I’m drunk. After she died I didn’t turn off her cell phone. It’s still in service. So that I can call her phone and when no one answers it’ll go to voice mail and I can hear her voice again. “Hi, this is Carrie, I’m not in, leave a message.”
I never leave a message.