They woke up to terrible news.
Again.
He had known the man for 40 years. An addiction that had been fought and won, and then this, the surprise relapse. Being caught in the headlights, the tiny miscalculation. They used to get high together, in the casual, trippy Canyon-Valley days. Watching the trees in the rain turn into seaweed.
Now, outside the hotel room, there was ice and snow covering the trees. He was glad they didn't have to go anywhere today. Glad to wrap themselves in fancy hotel blankets and have food delivered.
The radio was on, the recurring headline. "Found with a needle in his arm". He looked out the window and tried not to think. Everything was delicately, painfully beautiful. The branches covered in ice reminded him of syringes. Endless, everywhere, dangling, teasing him with their innocence.
His own addiction and recovery and relapse, hidden and secret and tenuous. She had no idea. And he was so careful to make sure she never knew. How close he had come so many times.
The time they were loading the truck and the guitar was balanced on the edge of the wall. Knocking it and catching it as it nearly fell the 6 stories. The knot in the stomach, you going over with the guitar in the air. Seeing it fall and catching it, oh the good grasp, lucky and random, pulling a success out of fate.
Driving through the snowstorm, visions of sliding at 60 miles an hour, a solid chestnut tree awaiting the impact. The car in front stopping too quickly, your heart stops. You swerve, always almost too late. Knowing that one day, it will happen and your reaction will be too slow.
She had seen this guy once in person, an intimate concert. Had remarked how touched she was by his voice, as if it created its own microclimate. His voice brought her back to the tiny cabin in the woods, vacations with her parents, when things were happy.
He told her stories, and she, polite audience that she was, listened deep into the night. He kept talking as he could hear her gently snoring.
He knew it was an accident. Anticipation and beautiful hunger for this imminent period of creativity. Floating, swimming, hearing music in your own breath. The last time he had spoken to The Voice, there was excitement about getting back into the studio.
Her breathing had turned quiet.
The Needle and the Damage Done by Neil Young
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/n/neil+young/the+needle+the+damage+done_20099058.html
Again.
He had known the man for 40 years. An addiction that had been fought and won, and then this, the surprise relapse. Being caught in the headlights, the tiny miscalculation. They used to get high together, in the casual, trippy Canyon-Valley days. Watching the trees in the rain turn into seaweed.
Now, outside the hotel room, there was ice and snow covering the trees. He was glad they didn't have to go anywhere today. Glad to wrap themselves in fancy hotel blankets and have food delivered.
The radio was on, the recurring headline. "Found with a needle in his arm". He looked out the window and tried not to think. Everything was delicately, painfully beautiful. The branches covered in ice reminded him of syringes. Endless, everywhere, dangling, teasing him with their innocence.
His own addiction and recovery and relapse, hidden and secret and tenuous. She had no idea. And he was so careful to make sure she never knew. How close he had come so many times.
The time they were loading the truck and the guitar was balanced on the edge of the wall. Knocking it and catching it as it nearly fell the 6 stories. The knot in the stomach, you going over with the guitar in the air. Seeing it fall and catching it, oh the good grasp, lucky and random, pulling a success out of fate.
Driving through the snowstorm, visions of sliding at 60 miles an hour, a solid chestnut tree awaiting the impact. The car in front stopping too quickly, your heart stops. You swerve, always almost too late. Knowing that one day, it will happen and your reaction will be too slow.
She had seen this guy once in person, an intimate concert. Had remarked how touched she was by his voice, as if it created its own microclimate. His voice brought her back to the tiny cabin in the woods, vacations with her parents, when things were happy.
He told her stories, and she, polite audience that she was, listened deep into the night. He kept talking as he could hear her gently snoring.
He knew it was an accident. Anticipation and beautiful hunger for this imminent period of creativity. Floating, swimming, hearing music in your own breath. The last time he had spoken to The Voice, there was excitement about getting back into the studio.
Her breathing had turned quiet.
The Needle and the Damage Done by Neil Young
http://www.lyricsfreak.com/n/neil+young/the+needle+the+damage+done_20099058.html
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