AnCatKatie
Rock n' Roll Doggie ALL ACCESS
A bit longer than my other ones. This is about Iris, and the boys being silly, and a little about Ali. And some bad driving on Bono's part.
His earliest memories were of her laughing. And laughing, and laughing. She was a good woman, even when he cried. He cried until he was three, when the ill-agreeing energy burst out from him and he confronted a boy who hurt his friend. Then he began to laugh, and inwardly, to sing. To muse upon the rhythm of everyday life, the thin coating of the grass edging upon the concrete, the shadows of the trees like great pillars of some vast building as he walked and reflected. The carelessness of the coldness of this world as he ran and laughed with his friends.
He only let himself feel the early memories in stages, when frozen, he sat with his head in his hands and let the images pool together. His mother had laughed, he remembered finally.
A boy somewhere else fiddled with a guitar then threw it aside. He had little time for music, at the moment, and after he memorized the instrument, he was asked to change it. He readily agreed and pulled at various sleeves in his family. "Can I have a bass guitar, please?" It edged in around the now-heartbeat sliding sound of the music this boy's mother and sister played. They agreed eventually.
Long nights, the shadows crept in through Paul's window and he thought. He didn't think always deeply; it crept in upon his mind when he least expected it. The covers were little protection against the violent news that crept like a neverending chill in his subconscious.
He was happy. Another night in the blue strange moonlight darkness of midnight, he sat up, blue in his thoughts. A piece of paper crumpled in his fist. No tears, no words. He was a sensible boy, when he tried to be.
The shadows formed drawings across the wall. He yawned, stretching, throwing his balled-up shirt carelessly somewhere, and sat crosslegged upon the bed, scribbling little pencil notes on the walls. He erased them but the marks stayed silent, benevolent.
What are you thankful for? the board read. Stupid school. Somewhere behind him one of the other kids giggled, someone yawned sarcastically. He stretched back and grinned and rolled his eyes, but when he turned back to the paper, he sighed and thought.
I'm a little thankful, he thought, that there's no-one to discipline me right now but myself. No-one yelling, no-one changing things.
The chatter in the room was warm, filling. There were friend-shaped reductions in the emptiness that had been punched through him, at the thought of the downwards spiral that laughing woman was going through.
It's lonely, sometimes.
The chill was warded off by a nudge in his side. He glanced to the side and half-smiled. "Ali's making eyes at you," David whispered conspiratorially, ever the serious boy. "She hasn't looked at her paper for the past twenty minutes. Only looking at you."
Paul laughed. Some of the inward tension dissipated, the sadness gone and lifted. He walked out the door and his eyes popped wide.
"What in hell happened to you, Larry?"
The other boy grimaced through altogether too much mud. "Remind me not to let anyone give me a ride here who says they learned to drive from you. Lucky I didn't die."
"I never said I could drive," he gasped, muffling the wild amusement.
The unformed thoughts scrawled across the inside of his mind weren't complete. They formed some pattern, some sense and beauty, that was as yet unrevealed. He thought hazily of love and this great energy he felt that kept him awake. It was her fault, probably.
His mother died and he exploded into the world. The unformed became raw and dark and uplifting. He cast away the thought that he would follow to wherever she went, or she could follow to where he was now.
Not important, the knife quivering in the wall where he had, in a burst of senselessness, thrown it. Or the whites of his brother's eyes, and his father's. Not important, walking out of the room. Not important, streetfights or birth into religion. Religion was embodied in people, before it stripped the power from his fists.
The sky held a joyful exuberance, cleared of sadness, reflected in the boys' sudden marked change to their worlds. He walked down the street and smiled absently, mock glared at someone, and half-ran down the sidewalk, too many words, too many songs in his head.
Out of silence…
His earliest memories were of her laughing. And laughing, and laughing. She was a good woman, even when he cried. He cried until he was three, when the ill-agreeing energy burst out from him and he confronted a boy who hurt his friend. Then he began to laugh, and inwardly, to sing. To muse upon the rhythm of everyday life, the thin coating of the grass edging upon the concrete, the shadows of the trees like great pillars of some vast building as he walked and reflected. The carelessness of the coldness of this world as he ran and laughed with his friends.
He only let himself feel the early memories in stages, when frozen, he sat with his head in his hands and let the images pool together. His mother had laughed, he remembered finally.
A boy somewhere else fiddled with a guitar then threw it aside. He had little time for music, at the moment, and after he memorized the instrument, he was asked to change it. He readily agreed and pulled at various sleeves in his family. "Can I have a bass guitar, please?" It edged in around the now-heartbeat sliding sound of the music this boy's mother and sister played. They agreed eventually.
Long nights, the shadows crept in through Paul's window and he thought. He didn't think always deeply; it crept in upon his mind when he least expected it. The covers were little protection against the violent news that crept like a neverending chill in his subconscious.
He was happy. Another night in the blue strange moonlight darkness of midnight, he sat up, blue in his thoughts. A piece of paper crumpled in his fist. No tears, no words. He was a sensible boy, when he tried to be.
The shadows formed drawings across the wall. He yawned, stretching, throwing his balled-up shirt carelessly somewhere, and sat crosslegged upon the bed, scribbling little pencil notes on the walls. He erased them but the marks stayed silent, benevolent.
What are you thankful for? the board read. Stupid school. Somewhere behind him one of the other kids giggled, someone yawned sarcastically. He stretched back and grinned and rolled his eyes, but when he turned back to the paper, he sighed and thought.
I'm a little thankful, he thought, that there's no-one to discipline me right now but myself. No-one yelling, no-one changing things.
The chatter in the room was warm, filling. There were friend-shaped reductions in the emptiness that had been punched through him, at the thought of the downwards spiral that laughing woman was going through.
It's lonely, sometimes.
The chill was warded off by a nudge in his side. He glanced to the side and half-smiled. "Ali's making eyes at you," David whispered conspiratorially, ever the serious boy. "She hasn't looked at her paper for the past twenty minutes. Only looking at you."
Paul laughed. Some of the inward tension dissipated, the sadness gone and lifted. He walked out the door and his eyes popped wide.
"What in hell happened to you, Larry?"
The other boy grimaced through altogether too much mud. "Remind me not to let anyone give me a ride here who says they learned to drive from you. Lucky I didn't die."
"I never said I could drive," he gasped, muffling the wild amusement.
The unformed thoughts scrawled across the inside of his mind weren't complete. They formed some pattern, some sense and beauty, that was as yet unrevealed. He thought hazily of love and this great energy he felt that kept him awake. It was her fault, probably.
His mother died and he exploded into the world. The unformed became raw and dark and uplifting. He cast away the thought that he would follow to wherever she went, or she could follow to where he was now.
Not important, the knife quivering in the wall where he had, in a burst of senselessness, thrown it. Or the whites of his brother's eyes, and his father's. Not important, walking out of the room. Not important, streetfights or birth into religion. Religion was embodied in people, before it stripped the power from his fists.
The sky held a joyful exuberance, cleared of sadness, reflected in the boys' sudden marked change to their worlds. He walked down the street and smiled absently, mock glared at someone, and half-ran down the sidewalk, too many words, too many songs in his head.
Out of silence…
