Wednesday, November 9, 2011

The Good Old Days

"From the window of a rented limousine
I saw your pretty blue eyes

One day soon you're gonna reach sixteen
Painted lady in the city of lies"

Colloq writes and I weep.  Or tremble.  Her posts are beautiful and emotional and awe inspiring for me.  Often, though, they make me remember a past that stretches its hand out to me like a villain with an oiled moustache and an evil glint in his eye.

She wrote a post recently about some bar (club? hookah place) that probably reaches its hand out to her.  And it brought me back to a very black time in my life (ages 15-18).

"Oh, how you play the game
Still don't know your name

You know I'm the one you want, babe
Yes, I've got to be the one you need, need, need."

It's not just the drinking.  Or the drugs.  Or the rebellion.  It's also the people.  The low-down, dirty, callous masses that prey on the bottom feeders.  Bottom feeders like me.  The weak, the helpless.  They promise you the world.  If only.

Just give it up and I'll get you what you need.  Money, drugs.  A roof over your head.  "Just give me what I want.  And you get what you want."  And after it's over - "So what's your name anyway?  Can I have your number?"

Quid pro quo.


"Lips like cherries on the frown of a queen
'Come on' flashed across your eyes

Said you dug me since you were thirteen
Then you giggle as you heave and sigh"

But it's not like we were so innocent.  Oh no.  They may have asked for it, but we were offering it too.  "We" being me.  Only it's less painful when you were just a sheep following the herd.  Rather than a wolf making your own decisions. 

A wolf that used its weapons to get what she wanted. 

I was a sheep and a wolf both.


"Oh, do you know my name?
Do I look the same?

Baby, I got to tell you, I'm the one you want
And everybody knows I'm the one you need"

And the other wolves, the ones who prey, they see a kindred spirit.  There are no innocents in this dance - just varying degrees of guilt. 

You are the one I need.  "Here's what you want - now your hour is up.  Where's the reward?"


"Hours, hours, were the moments in between
Oh, baby, how the time flies
The fun of coming - oh, the pain of leaving
Oh, baby, dry those silver eyes"

4 years.  A childhood.

It is a dark, empty flash of...light?  No, that's not right.  It's a dark blur.  Images from many long nights all interconnected, woven together by drugs and alcohol.  Endless parties and raves and gatherings and opportunities for all kinds of "fun".  Oh the "fun" I had.  Each incident leaves an imprint on my soul - like a tattoo that seemed a good idea of the time but has now become a sagging, faded reminder of the stupid decisions of youthful innocence.

Or guilt.

And all the time the vile man with the moustache sticks out his hands and beckons.

3 comments:

  1. thanks....and no guilt. never guilt. guilt is what keeps us there, rolling around in our own crap....regret, maybe. but never, EVER, guilt.
    survival is survival, whether you are a wolf, sheep or something in between.
    and in the end, it creates one hell of a person.

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  2. Coll - I think you are one of the few who "get" this one. I wrote this one FOR you, actually more correctly, WITH you in mind.

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