I listened to a song that reminded me of my mother today,
but also that reminded me of me,
but also made me think of Sydney
though I won't talk about that,
I suggest listening to it.
Or simply looking at the lyrics.
White Trash Beautiful by Everlast.
I say that it reminds me of my mother, but it
mostly reminds me of my childhood.
Childhood car rides,
specifically from home,
maybe late at night.
She played things like this
and Metallica,
I was raised on everything, really.
I was raised on the musical staff.
When I was younger,
9 was late
so the stars and trees and clouds and world that passed by
so quick at night when I was sure
a monster would swallow our car
seemed to simply protect us
and the thumping of the stereo,
her hard, glazed over eyes locking on the road in front of us,
I dozed in and out of consciousness.
the song.
reminded me of the way people release their issues
in the music that they make
or that they listen to.
My mother drowned out her
failing marriage
drug addictions
and her mental illnesses
and me
and everything else,
with music
and alcohol
and more drugs
and more men, the kind that
couldn't keep their hands to themselves
those kinds of men.
There were songs by Everlast that just
made sense
to her
and I never
really
understood, I mean, I
was as a toddler, why would I?
I had too much going on in my kid mind,
I'm sure.
but I get it so much now.
I also recommend
What it's like which is also by Everlast
Because I get that, too, more than
I think
most.
the song
I was talking about first
isn't supposed to be bad, right
I think it's mostly the music
that reminds me of my mother-
of my childhood with my mother.
I try not to think
about things like that too much.
but I promised to try and start opening up more.

"hello, what is your name?"

the familiar vibration in my ears
that creeps its way into my blood
a buzz
a hum
constant
beneath my skin
when days were louder
like the crash of pots and pans
in my grandmother's house
where the ceiling was littered with butterflies
like the static from empty radio stations
akin to that of crunching snow
and the harsh grating of metal

they are the memories dipped in sepia
and overexposed flashes of light
dripping as they walk on
leaving footprints
a silhouette

it is the fear of our wrinkling hands that drive us closer to the edge
to the end
as the sun and moon rewind in a never ending cycle
a loop
right before a leap of faith
towards that never ending youth
the desperate sliver of summer at the end of a blurry december's haze
when nothing is recognisable
a restart

"hello, what is your name?"