Something is amiss
Posted: December 28th, 2012, 2:36 am
Rode a bus from Hollywood to the village. A one-way ticket across the great U S of A.
Two thousand eight hundred and one miles, and I don't remember one minute of it...
A three year old boy and his beatnik mom, seeking to fulfill a dream that L.A. couldn't
render. Or maybe, it was just to get as far away as possible from a two-timing ol' man.
What could it matter to a starving artist's endeavor... the Ozark born mother knew that
her ambitions would create a life worth living, wherever we'd happen to settle down.
Manhattan 1963. The Five Spot Cafe, Thelonious Monk, and all those too soon to be recognized artists. All the gigs, the parties, the funny cigarettes, the upstairs... and...
It wasn't meant to last. It was all fun and games, but the toddler needed some roots. The big city life had to come to an end, for his sake. All that jazz, traded in for a quite tune in a sleepy little town up state... it was just an hour away though. Close enough for a few midnight encounters.
Fourteen years later, I hitched back to L.A. It took me nine months to get there, but I only stayed for one day. Seems I never really knew my own hometown. I was an east coast kid now. Besides, L.A. didn't have what I was looking for anyway. Thought I'd look around for the dad, but then I thought better. He could've easily enough found me, had he really wanted a son.
But I don't feel the difference... so, no harm done.
When I bought my first computer, I tried looking for him one last time. But his trail had
long grown cold by then. A mystery has been set in his place though. As I started my
online search, the department of social security informed me that he had died in 1960.
Well, I was born in 1960, and he was still alive and kicking in 1963.
Something is amiss.
Two thousand eight hundred and one miles, and I don't remember one minute of it...
A three year old boy and his beatnik mom, seeking to fulfill a dream that L.A. couldn't
render. Or maybe, it was just to get as far away as possible from a two-timing ol' man.
What could it matter to a starving artist's endeavor... the Ozark born mother knew that
her ambitions would create a life worth living, wherever we'd happen to settle down.
Manhattan 1963. The Five Spot Cafe, Thelonious Monk, and all those too soon to be recognized artists. All the gigs, the parties, the funny cigarettes, the upstairs... and...
It wasn't meant to last. It was all fun and games, but the toddler needed some roots. The big city life had to come to an end, for his sake. All that jazz, traded in for a quite tune in a sleepy little town up state... it was just an hour away though. Close enough for a few midnight encounters.
Fourteen years later, I hitched back to L.A. It took me nine months to get there, but I only stayed for one day. Seems I never really knew my own hometown. I was an east coast kid now. Besides, L.A. didn't have what I was looking for anyway. Thought I'd look around for the dad, but then I thought better. He could've easily enough found me, had he really wanted a son.
But I don't feel the difference... so, no harm done.
When I bought my first computer, I tried looking for him one last time. But his trail had
long grown cold by then. A mystery has been set in his place though. As I started my
online search, the department of social security informed me that he had died in 1960.
Well, I was born in 1960, and he was still alive and kicking in 1963.
Something is amiss.
