This will surely be…the end of me…
Dun dun dun dun dun dun – yeah, so maybe I listen to down and dirty Southern Rock sometimes. Maybe I like to hear the dulcet tones of Duane Allman singing “Dreams” to me over my record player. I can lay here and listen to the song over and over again, feeling the bass resonate through my spine in some sort of ethereal sensation that only music can provide. An orgasmic feeling of the bass falling carelessly through the chords leading up to a sweet line that can only be held up in comparison to something that you’d snort up your nose or swallow down your gullet.
I’ll be honest, back in my previous wild days of waking up in with nothing of value to my name besides my record player and some haggard old vinyl I would pop this album on and feel a little bit better about myself. Something about Duane singing his heart out, the soul, the feeling, the sheer concept of being free. Being a dirty hippy with naked feet dancing in some field somewhere with mud in my toes and a song in my ears, that’s where I’d be free. I can’t though, responsibilities, blah blah.
“And went up on the mountain, to see what I could see.
The whole world was fallin, right down in front of me.”
The concept of this song didn’t really fall on me until listening to it three times straight today in an attempt of getting my head out of my ass. It’s been rough since the crash, and even though I’ve got my eye on the big prize, it’s not easy for me to lift my head off of that big fluffy pillow sometimes and put on my very own “walking shoes” and forget to stop. The urge to run from my problems has been strong, and I can’t say I’m always capable of fighting off the urge to get in the car and watch the world collapse from a distance. “Goodbye cruel world, I’m leaving you today…” the Pink Floyd song always plays in my head as I shift into a higher gear driving a little bit faster in the opposite direction of my heart and my hurt and my headaches. The adios is always temporary, however, and eventually I have to tuck my tail between my legs and ramble back to where I came from.
The gypsy in my is strong, and at times I wonder where it’s actually going to take me. Relationships haven’t been my strong point, and those that were “successful” are still very front and center in my mind. I know, though, that my lifestyle isn’t exactly the “marrying type”. The collapse of my world happens everyday, as soon as I put on my walking shoes and step out the door. I listen to Duane singing about putting on a new face and I can’t help but wonder if that’s what I need. Do I need a new face, or just an attitude. To steal from Jimmy Buffet, “changes in attitude, changes in latitude”. I keep driving, however, and my attitude doesn’t seem to improve – especially in Kentucky.
Actually, that’s the only place that I’ve found that I can actually be myself. My bourbon loving, loud music listening, cheeseburger eating self feels at peace. There is something about the place that I feel at home, I feel I need to be there, and my morning walking shoes always takes me there. There is something romantic about Kentucky, a vibe, a sense of excitement and lust. Kentucky, another thumbtack on the map of places that I “think” can make me happy. I’ve found people don’t make me happy, although I try desperately to find one that does, it’s impossible. Happiness is a state, and that state is Kentucky.
I’ve run into the problem, however, that nobody around me justifies me tearing up my “roots” and leaving to go live in Louisville. There is crime, weather, wildcats, people from kentucky, you name it, the excuses roll. What the naysayers don’t understand is that I belong in Kentucky. I belong there because that’s where I’ve decided I’ll be happy. I’ve decided that South Carolina no longer does it for me. The romantic nature of this state wore off somewhere around my divorce and has become a festering love sick wound ever since. I’m ready to heal some of those wounds with a change of zip code.
“You can’t win the Kentucky Derby unless you’re on a thoroughbred.”
I’m ready to win the derby. Where’s my thoroughbred? I’m sick of walking in these damn “walking shoes”