Dec 2013
Lovely, lets go drive somewhere.
Lets go on a roadtrip to nowhere.
Forget all our worries, and our past, and our future, and disappear in the beckoning call of the stars, and the waning moon.
To old tapes that our parents liked, and our mother cried to one thousand times before our own tears hit the brown leather interior of this big vast van.
Far too big for both of our egos, yet too small for this beauty… Rumbling along with a feisty engine, and the scent shadows of cigarette smoke, love, and a ladies expensive Sauvé perfume encased in the seats. Memoirs of a distant past.
The Rolling Stones. Bob Dylan. Chubby Checker. Motley Crue. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Nirvana. Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam. The Doors. Frank Sinatra. Aretha Franklin. Simon and Garfunkel. Bobbie Gentry. Too many to name.
They filled the night to the top.
And trailed behind us, weaving its way in the corners of traffic, and windows of hot personalities, sweating their worries in the dark heat of the summer night.
We stop at some roadside diner; one o’clock in the morning drab slumped over all the tables. Questioning the road we take, we order coffee from the wrinkly lady named Susie, and leave it on Johns tab. We don’t even know him, but if we emptied out our pockets here and now, all we would find is lint.
We can roll down the windows, and unbuckle our seat belts on some abandoned road, racing to infinity, and only visible for this moment. We can stick out our pretty little heads, and yell into the night, cursing everything that doomed us, and everyone that doubted the freedom, the spirit that we have. It will just all just disappear in the wind.
Slipping past cornfields, alleys, coffee shops, and tiny towns, where every single one of those people have a life and a story that we could never imagine. Either that, or they have nothing at all…
Then we can stop on the side of the road, overlooking the sea, moonlight reflected upon its crashing face, and we can put something mellow on, in that ancient tape player. A tape which the label has long since warn off. But three words remain.
1967. For Marline.
A mix that was passed on from your old boyfriend, from his father’s grave… Who knows what his name was. Who knows where, or who he is now. He could be a man forgotten of all memories but you, and strives upon the image of that pretty face, but you forgot him already.
Now you can’t remember.
But we can LIVE, here and now, and we can look back upon this moment forever, while we drive back to our lives, and know, without saying anything, that we are all that any of us will ever need, and we didn’t need anybody to tell us anything because of that.
Lets go on a roadtrip to nowhere.
Forget all our worries, and our past, and our future, and disappear in the beckoning call of the stars, and the waning moon.
To old tapes that our parents liked, and our mother cried to one thousand times before our own tears hit the brown leather interior of this big vast van.
Far too big for both of our egos, yet too small for this beauty… Rumbling along with a feisty engine, and the scent shadows of cigarette smoke, love, and a ladies expensive Sauvé perfume encased in the seats. Memoirs of a distant past.
The Rolling Stones. Bob Dylan. Chubby Checker. Motley Crue. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Nirvana. Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam. The Doors. Frank Sinatra. Aretha Franklin. Simon and Garfunkel. Bobbie Gentry. Too many to name.
They filled the night to the top.
And trailed behind us, weaving its way in the corners of traffic, and windows of hot personalities, sweating their worries in the dark heat of the summer night.
We stop at some roadside diner; one o’clock in the morning drab slumped over all the tables. Questioning the road we take, we order coffee from the wrinkly lady named Susie, and leave it on Johns tab. We don’t even know him, but if we emptied out our pockets here and now, all we would find is lint.
We can roll down the windows, and unbuckle our seat belts on some abandoned road, racing to infinity, and only visible for this moment. We can stick out our pretty little heads, and yell into the night, cursing everything that doomed us, and everyone that doubted the freedom, the spirit that we have. It will just all just disappear in the wind.
Slipping past cornfields, alleys, coffee shops, and tiny towns, where every single one of those people have a life and a story that we could never imagine. Either that, or they have nothing at all…
Then we can stop on the side of the road, overlooking the sea, moonlight reflected upon its crashing face, and we can put something mellow on, in that ancient tape player. A tape which the label has long since warn off. But three words remain.
1967. For Marline.
A mix that was passed on from your old boyfriend, from his father’s grave… Who knows what his name was. Who knows where, or who he is now. He could be a man forgotten of all memories but you, and strives upon the image of that pretty face, but you forgot him already.
Now you can’t remember.
But we can LIVE, here and now, and we can look back upon this moment forever, while we drive back to our lives, and know, without saying anything, that we are all that any of us will ever need, and we didn’t need anybody to tell us anything because of that.
