Soundtrack.

 Someday you will ache like I ache.

-C.Love.

It reminded her of the village. Christopher street maybe? Round those parts. A basement,The owners boldly smoking cigarette’s while milling amongst the stock racks, almost pornographically shocking to behold in these boring as fuck times. Perpetual adolescents nursing tawny bottles of beer,overgrown sweet open faced manchildren selling vinyl dreams and CD remasters.

The sidwalks shimmering with heat.

New York seems like a  a million years ago to her now.Thin dry pizza,tight streets and the small-town hip from running from  the sticks,the boondocks, the buttfuck nowhere’s that couldn’t contain them, recreating themselves Warhol approved and blessed on Scorsese’s mean streets.A digression. Its Sydney Australia and her melancholy backwards reaching memory laden imagination will kill her one day.

( Stabbed 3 times swiftly in the ribs.)

She has not sung in public in months,she barely sings in private.Who are we kidding? She’s socially autistic.Sits out in that shed with her spectres and spirits.

Her alternate universe where he loved her still,where she was more to him than a fuck-hole furnished in fishnet that he would no longer kiss,no longer look at with affection,where they never ended and she got to walk down the aisle to Black Sabbath,married at the pink palace high above Eagle rock surrounded by all their friends and die in his embrace round about 50 odd years later. Just like she drept,they dreamt,it would be.

Miss Haversham. She’s lost in the ether.

 No one remembers what or who she ever or even was…..

She was a footnote in someone else’s circus and forgot that she was worth much of anything at all. But he,one of her all time hero’s,brother and best friend,threw her a rope.An opening spot on his show at a subterranean record emporium on a sweaty summer Saturday afternoon.

She agreed before he had even finished asking her. The rope dangling before her she grabbed on tight. Briefly pondering hanging herself with it she decided instead to pull herself out and see what was out there.To see if she could.

She began to write.

Songs.Songs full of tripwires and razors.Horrible rotten diseased songs.Songs to sicken and and quicken the reburial of her heart.Of her shattered and shat upon dreams. Like Blake, songs of bitter experience. He warned her that one day,her sneered,you too will just be another love song …..

She still wakes up crying.

She wrote.On everything. On the wall above her bed half asleep,in her endless journal.A verse threw her from the shower,dripping on the floor of the kitchen she captured it on the back of a curling receipt with a stuttering pen and went back to the rain room.Her last remaining guitar a surfboard strung with dental floss.Her voice rusty with sadness and lack of use.No smile or inviting presumption within it.

They came,these words.They lined up for miles.All the songs that she didn’t want.The hurt ones.The car crash sonatas. But she,the ever gracious host sighed and let them in….

Playing an hour or so a day.Wrists creaking like hammer horror sound effects.Sucking bitterly on her broken teeth she kept going.Unable to find her tuning or her footing.Face awash in tears.

She didn’t even tell nor advertise that she was pitting herself against herself yet again,throwing her sad remains to the sonic lions.My how things have changed! She  was afraid. So she just did it. No one even knew that she could actually sing so when she did?….who knows?  Maybe if she had of opened her eyes she may have seen them smiling.Or not.

Shit in one hand and wish in the other.Which one do you think is going to fill up 1st?

Exactly.

And the  show.Ah,the Stevie Nicks of suburbia in a long black tent of a dress that may as well have been a burka and long tan boots.Sweating and shaking like a shitting dog,propped,barely,on the edge of a stool criss -crossed with peeling duct tape ,leaking foam ,bound badly like a kidnap victim. (” Mmmmmmm!!!!!MMMMM!!!!!!” )

The opening band went to loud and to long for which she was most grateful as it cut her set time down to nothing.A sweet sonic bugger all really. That’s when she knew she would fail but could get through it.

Eye contact was made with no one.She optioned to keep those big old blue orbs firmly shut.To hold the darkness and to stop the tears. How embarrassing.

She was not even there,not really…

She was bogged down in memory,of then,of what they once shared.She loved playing with him so much,all their punk rock Johnny and June fantasies sans auto harp and hand guns sprung to life fully formed like an acoustic Athena  from Zeuses head.Together.All over the world.In the end it became the only place where he would look at her with any kind of awe at all so she horded those few songs nightly like gold. Treasure..

Now she has to do it alone.

And she did.

And she may very well just fucking do it again.