10 June 2012

nothing outside

i have
boxes full of notebooks
notebooks full of words
words from the past.

tonight i opened a box
and opened a notebook
at random
and read the words
written
in thin black ink
at the top of a page:


Nothing outside of this room makes sense.

a flood of memories hit me
knocking me backward
seven years into the past
and
one thousand three hundred eighty-one miles
to the west
to a room up the stairs and down the hallway
from an unmarked dull grey metal door on ivar boulevard
one block to the west
of the corner
of hollywood and vine
in los angeles, california.

Nothing outside of this room makes sense.

on most weekend nights, and a handful of monday through fridays
i would be there
a few minutes before two o'clock in the morning
turning off the lights, the stereo, the amplifiers
waiting
in silence and near-complete darkness
for the half-drunk security guard to make his rounds
and go home for the evening.

i would spend the nights alone in that room
sleeping on the floor
between the kick drum and the amplifiers
and the pedal board and mic stands
using my backpack for a pillow
with my bass in my arms.

some nights i would sleep this way
some nights i wouldn't sleep at all.

Nothing outside of this room makes sense.

my soundtrack to those nights
were mixtape cds with bands like
,

i would plug in my bass and play along
or play my own thing
or i'd write
or just lie on the floor and listen
or just lie on the floor in silence.

or i'd turn off the lights
and dance
slow and steady
weaving around the room
through the maze of gear and memories.

Nothing outside of this room makes sense.

the walls were decorated with green xmas lights
arranged in unmistakable patterns
and words scrawled in black permanent marker
lyrics and poetry written by familiar hands
my own or another's
or some unknown stranger from years before.

there were no windows to the outside world
so day was night and night was day
and it really didn't matter at all
this room existed outside the confines
of the usual restrictions
of time.

the warmth and electricity
and relentless
creative energy
replaced it all.

Nothing outside of this room makes sense.

Nothing outside of this room makes sense.