I miss you my boy. This long-distance thing blows. I’m in a weird, introspective mood and I would love nothing more than to drive over to Kingsford, walk to that park around the corner and sit and talk and smoke for a couple of hours
But you’re not in Kingsford.
And I’ve quit smoking (10 days and counting).
And the story I have to tell would take too long. There are too many characters, too many explanations, too many qualifications. And you would rush to conclusions the way you always do, and I’d have to walk you back from taking someone’s kneecaps, and you still wouldn’t be convinced.
(And my iTunes just started playing Steely Dan. Who I realise now I really don’t like. Yet I would go to that gig 3 times over just to see you and your dad sitting side by side, tapping your feet and hitting your thigh with your hand in a wonderful, appreciative, jolly-good-show Hercu-les-Hercu-les kind of way).
(And three Fleetwood Mac songs have come up when I’ve been skipping through tracks, looking for a song I can’t identify. And I immediately think of you, and of a Double Bay cafe, and tears in a pair of eyes and “i wanna be with you everywhere” on the radio).
(And I finally settle on Augie March, and I remember going to see them at The Metro with you last year. And you hadn’t seen them before, and were terribly impressed).
And now I’ve lost the train of thought that I was running with before the music-related brackets. Which seems oddly suitable, since you’d always stop me and ask if I’d heard this band, and I would have, because we’d have both read the same Rolling Stone article about them and instantly downloaded their album.
(And now my – and, apparently, my mother’s – favourite piece of classical music has come on. Beethoven’s 132nd Opus, from his String Quartet no.15 in A Minor. And I want to play it to you, because I think you’d get it. And you wouldn’t like the middle part quite as much, and we’d both agree it was the start and the end where it was at. That it was the cello (we think) that really makes the piece. And then I’d follow that by mentioning that Byron plays cello, and then we’d be back on the loop that we left half an hour ago, as if it was the most natural thing in the world).
And you’d laugh at Byron, now that we’re back there, and say that you wanted to kill yourself after seeing his Horatio. And then we’d launch into how cool our Hamlet was, and talk about theatre, and high school, and SUDS, and VCA (would you have gone to VCA in this daydream? I think so).
And I would drag the conversation back to what I really want to talk about, which is why I feel so great a lot of the time, but as though there’s a deep ocean of melancholy just beneath the surface. Which you’d recognise, but wouldn’t remember from where (and then in ten minutes would realise). And we’d talk about why I felt like I did, and I’d spill everything, and make it sound much worse than it is. At least, I’d make it sound much worse than I think it is. Maybe it is bad and I’m just being stoic. There’s that Brutus again.
And I’d have to go, or you’d have to go, and so we’d rapidly tie up all the loose ends, but not with enough conviction to really think it’s all solved, but we’d both know that I’d call you in a couple of days to report on progress.
And I doubt that anything profound would change, although I’d feel better for talking about it with you.
But you’re not in Kingsford.