Break on Through

I woke with a song screaming in my head.

Like Richard Thompson’s Wall of Death, Helter Skelter’s a song about a carnival ride which, in turn, is an allegory about relationships.

When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide
And I stop and I turn and I go for a ride
And I get to the bottom and I see you again, yeah, yeah

Well do you, don't you want me to make you
I'm coming down fast but don't let me break you
Tell me, tell me, tell me your answer
You may be a lover but you ain't no dancer

Look out
Helter skelter, helter skelter

Back when I was living in the student ghetto neighborhood of Allston, I went to a skank-ass club called Bunratty’s. I wasn’t expecting much from that night's headliner—never heard of them and I don’t remember their name now. I was there because I was bored, antsy and felt like people watching while pogoing to some loud music. The band mounted the platform and launched into Helter Skelter. I thought Oh please, they’re just gonna make fools of themselves tryin’ to pull this off. Nope. I was SO wrong. They killed it—nailed it to the motherfucking wall. It was everything I needed—more than brilliant.

I miss music, live and otherwise (fucking duh!). I could live inside the B side of NIN’s The Downward Spiral. Likewise, Abbey Road’s B side, the entirety of Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints, Hand of Kindness by Richard Thompson, Jeff  Beck Group’s Truth, Fela Anikulapo Kuti—Black President. And that’s just for starters.

From Friday's 500 foot walk

When I say I could live in the music, I mean that I could just lay out on the floor, crank the stereo to 11 and feel every atom in my being expand and percolate while listening to Sly Stone belt out I Want to Take You Higher or Chrissie Hynde on Brass In Pocket or John Cale screaming Fear is a Man’s Best Friend.

I’d stand up afterwards, all my molecules back in place, realigned and ready to go—ready to face this insane universe.

On April 13th I begin six or seven straight weeks of proton radiation. It pinky swear promises to bring my energy levels down to pathetically low levels, throwing the brakes on my already tortoise paced recovery.

I’m sorely missing my aural caffeine, my courage booster, my principle means of escape from this life's harsh realities—my safe space.

Eh, I’ll break on through to the other side. I’ll triumph, I’ll clear this coming, motherfucking hurdle. 

It’s what I do.