Monday, July 12, 2010

Must be the clouds in my eyes.

It was as if Elton John was breathing in my neck last week, like a devilish whisper the automatically sets your mind into some kind of trance. Daniel is leaving tonight on a plane/I can see the red tail lights heading for Spain. Oh now, I know where this is headed – Spain. You know, like a vamos por todos, etc. No, but honestly, you know those times that a song is just so stuck in your head it feels like the notes have been imprinted in your cranium? It’s not even a last song syndrome (LSS) but a last-sung syndrome. As I can remember, the last Elton John I heard before I was suddenly humming Daniel in a soundless jeep, was Your Song, the proverbial piece of my officemate who incessantly thinks he is Ewan McGregor looking for Sabine, while singing it in the videoke. But really, you know when it hounds you and follows you like dirt in your sweaty skin. As if I’m gonna get through with it already, when I traveled this week to an adjacent city, the oldies guitarist in one of the rooftop grills we ate at suddenly belch an oh-so familiar tune. God it looks like Daniel/Must be the clouds in my eyes. I dunno, I’m not really leaving for Spain right now, nor even flying on an airplane. Oh I know, I have to add this to my videoke repertoire next session. I think I may be getting it now. It’s really hits me probably on the leaving part. I’m like on a letting-go-moving-on mode right now. And waka waka couldn’t be any more timing. I think with the WC coinciding, things are looking good in the near future, not that I equate soccer with anything going on right now but maybe there is. Must be the clouds in my eyes.

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting